


Shadow And Smoke

by Hibkei



Series: The Tomlinson Files [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Angst, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Police Investigator Harry, Police corruption, Private Investigator Louis, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-10-29 22:36:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10863513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hibkei/pseuds/Hibkei
Summary: Some days are just meant to test him. They’re meant to force him to confront just how strong his mettle really is. Today is clearly one of those daysThe City is choking, the police are corrupt but this is Louis Tomlinson’s world. It’s 1953 and Private Investigator Tomlinson is called to the scene of a grisly crime. This isn’t his first confrontation with death but this time it’s different. This time it’s personal. Louis isn’t sure what he will do but he knows he will do it the way he does everything, alone. Police Investigator Harry Styles with his striking green eyes is a complication that he doesn’t need, a distraction that changes everything.





	1. The Darkness Comes

**Author's Note:**

> A re-imagining of _From Within The Shadows_ , A Blacksad graphic novel
> 
> The setting for this story is deliberately ambiguous and referred to only as The City. It's a mash up of New York and London with the dial swung more to the American side.
> 
> This was an interesting challenge to write and I hope that you enjoy it xx

Some days are just meant to test him. They’re meant to force him to confront just how strong his mettle really is. Today is clearly one of those days. There aren’t enough cigarettes in the world to lighten the heavy mood that settles around his shoulders as he thinks of these things but Louis Tomlinson will be damned if he isn’t going to try. He takes another drag, tight, deep with intent and focus and let’s the smoke corrupt his lungs. Soon he’ll be just as tainted as everything around him. Soon he’ll blend in completely with the grit and the grime.

The call had come in the early hours. Earlier than he’ll ever find acceptable. Time has no respect for him or anyone else and that truth irritates him on days like today. When the phone rang the city had still been waking up, still stretching its weary bones, getting ready for whatever new shit the heavens see fit to rain down on it day after day.

Louis stares up at his ceiling, cigarette now hanging limp from his thin lips. The fan is doing its slow motions, pushing old air around the room. He can see the specks of dust dancing in the dim light, the only thing that seems alive. He takes a deep breath. Louis doesn’t have any new cases. Hasn’t for a while now. Don’t wives and husbands cheat on their spouses anymore? Things are getting stagnant, stale. How is he supposed to pay the bills if this continues? How is he supposed to get out of bed?

The call he’d received was designed to propel him up and out but it only makes him want to retreat more, to dig deeper under the thin blankets and never emerge again. A long trail of ash falls onto the tattered threads covering him from the waist down and Louis sighs. He flicks the stub into the ashtray on his bedside table and finally swings himself out of bed.

He lights another as he rummages through the pile of clothes on his bedroom floor and over the chair and on the corner of the bed. He grabs the least rumpled shirt he can find and slings it on, putting down his cigarette so he can get at the buttons. He squints through puffy eyes trying to line up the damn things with their corresponding holes. Slipping in to his trousers next, he pulls up his braces and figures this is as good as it’s going to get. He’s wasted almost an entire cigarette on the ordeal. Two fingers of whiskey and that’s breakfast sorted.

When Louis finally arrives at his destination he thinks he’s ready to face it, thinks he’s going to be completely fine with whatever scene greets him. He’s out in the suburbs, the part of the city where people have too much money and too much time. He keeps up an internal monologue of disparaging comments about the displays of wealth greeting him on all sides until he’s actually where he’s meant to be. It’s only then that’s he’s grateful he’d kept breakfast to the bare essentials. He didn’t know what would’ve happened if he’d had to face Martin’s body on a full stomach.

“You recognise him?” Jones the lead inspector is speaking but Louis has no intention of listening.

His mind is reeling and his eyes won’t stay still. They dart back and forth raking over the body crumpled in front of him. He blinks rapidly trying to steady his beating heart, to stop the clammy sweat he can feel covering his skin. His throat is dry and his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. How could this happen? That’s a stupid question. Death happens, it happens all the time in this fucking city. Louis shakes his head. One quick aborted motion. _Stop asking silly questions Tomlinson_.

He tears his eyes away and takes in the room. A gorgeous den, all dark wood, leather, and cigar smoke. This is what opulence really is in the end, a facade. Louis steps closer to the slumped figure seated in one of those expensive leather chairs, head resting on the mahogany desk, a drink sitting heavy in crystal glass abandoned just beside it.

Martin had been handsome in life, chiseled jaw, square and strong, wide shoulders and a narrow waist. In death he just looks frail, cold, unreachable. The trappings of wealth hadn’t stopped someone from stealing the most important thing Martin had. His life.

Someone in this city had put a bullet in his head and Louis’ hands shake as he stares at the wound, the perfect roundness of it, the dried, rusty red that’s pooled around Martin’s head like a halo. Louis’ lip trembles and he sets his jaw, grits his teeth and his blue eyes turn to grey steel.

For a moment, everything is silent. It’s just him and Martin, the present and the past. Then, bit by bit sounds filter back to him. The drag of shoes on carpet, the swish of trench coats, the unmistakable sound of flash photography, fingers shuffling papers, muffled voices, even a burst of laughter.

There are men riffling through everything in the room, trampling the crime scene to bits. Real professional job. Someone is snapping pictures of Martin and the indignity of it all makes Louis’ skin crawl.

Louis wants to shout at them all to be more careful, to do their jobs right for once in their pathetic lives. Better yet, he wants to call them all assholes and tell them to leave the room, the incompetent pieces of shit. All of them. Except for one. Crouched in the corner of the room, his black trench coat standing out from the sea of tan is a man with brown curly hair. His back is turned but Louis can see that he’s looking at something through a magnifying glass. Louis can’t help but want to know what. He seems meticulous in a way that these other bastards are not. A reverence, a carefulness exuding from him where the others are just heavy boots and heavier hands.

Louis wants to stay glued to this stranger, he wants to keep his eyes locked on him, right there away from Martin but that proves futile. His eyes keep darting between them, always drawn back to the body in the chair. After all, it’s not everyday that a person is confronted with their past in such brutal circumstances.

He forces himself to look back to the black trench coat. “What’s this one doing?” Louis points a slender finger at the brown curls.

Jones grunts. “Collecting evidence, or so he says.” He doesn’t sound or look at all impressed with the curly haired presence. If anything Louis swears Jones’ upper lip curls in a bit of a snarl as he regards his subordinate. “Anyway. Lewis, I asked if you recognised him.”

Louis wants to stab someone, preferably the lead inspector. He insists on mispronouncing Louis’ name. Louis knows it’s on purpose. Jones isn’t stupid, he’s known Louis for years. He also knows that Louis recognises the body in the chair. Everyone in the room knows who he is. Why had Jones even called him? Unless…

Louis lets that train of thought die before it even gets going and takes a steadying breath instead. “Yes Jones. Did you find anything?”

“Nothing. No motive, no weapon and no suspect.” He says this last part with a look at Louis as if he asking if there’s something Louis wants to add.

Yes there is something Louis would love to add, a punch to the face. It’s not as if the crime scene can become any more of a mess. At Louis’ silence Jones heaves a sigh and speaks again, “We were hoping you could tell us something useful.”

“I haven’t seen or spoken to Martin in years Jones. I’ve got nothing.”

Jones’ face registers mild surprise but he quickly tamps it down. “Well thanks for coming by. You can go then, let my boys finish up.”

“They’re doing a bang up job as always,” Louis says, sneering the words. “Also, this wasn’t a robbery.”

He’s already heading to the doorway ready to make his way out of this stuffy room full of broken dreams and shattered purpose. He feels eyes on him, hot and arresting. They almost make him falter in his step but he shrugs it off, not even bothering to turn around. He’s already thinking about his next cigarette, his cigar case and the half empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the desk in his office.

“Lewis listen to me.” Jones’ voice is stern.

There isn’t much of a chance in hell of that happening but Louis slows his steps to at least give the illusion.

“Keep your nose out of this case. I’m serious Tomlinson.”

“Fuck off Jones.” Nice and diplomatic as always. Louis will do exactly what he wants even if he has no idea what that is at the moment.

 

*** *** ***

 

Louis runs his fingers across the cheap newsprint. It leaves dirty streaks on his skin, the ink as black as his mood. _Up and coming actor Martin Kincaid Murdered at Home._ The headline stares back at him as he tosses the paper aside. He’s been looking at it for days, drawn back to it every time he finally puts it down. It had stopped him dead in the street when he’d passed the newsstand and saw Martin’s face splashed across the front page. Louis had known it would hit the news, known it would be a big story. Still, he hadn’t been prepared for it. 

He pushes at the debris on his desk, making a space at the corner of the cluttered surface to sit. His cramped office is a fucking disaster. Every bit of it is covered with something. The remnants of old cases, piles of newspapers that he scours for potential work, more teacups than he thought he owned, half filled notebooks, pens scattered everywhere, case files overflowing bookshelves and even a burnt down candle all has its place in the chaos.

Taking a drag of his cigarette, Louis watches as the smoke curls around him before joining with the other tendrils that have come before it. No matter how many drags he takes Louis can’t shake the fog of memory that seems determined to envelope him. Martin. How had it come to this?

Martin Kincaid born to be a star. He was charming and bright, the kid next door with yellow blonde hair that always seemed to catch the light. The relatable everyman, everyone wanted a piece of him. Louis breathes deep, feels his chest expand with it and then exhales, pushing it all out, his rigid posture slouching over. He grips the edge of his desk, fingers scratching against the underside, feeling the rough wood. He thinks of the film posters with Martin’s unassuming smile laced with a hint of mischief, the articles in the gossips rags about his love life and the starlets he always seemed to have on his arm. He was invincible, Martin was, effortless in his appeal.

Louis rolls his tongue against his lips, tasting the bitterness of the smoke in his mouth and he thinks about what it was like when he first met Martin. That day he wasn’t The City’s darling. That day he was just another citizen fearing for his life.

Martin had been dubbed the next big thing, just making the kind of splash that gets you the real money. When Louis pulled up to the big shiny house for the first time he’d been nonplussed. A dramatic film star worried about his fans. Louis will be the first to admit that he’d been ready to dismiss Martin’s concerns, to assume he was was overreacting. He’d realised then as he was walking up the stone steps that he was judging Martin without even knowing all the facts. He’d checked himself, tempering his attitude before entering the house. The City had made Louis hard and cynical but he wouldn’t let it turn him cold.

Then he’d finally gotten a look at the bouquets scattered around the living room in various stages of decay. It gave Louis an immediate sense of unease, the way only dying flowers can. Martin had been pacing the room, hair frazzled, wits at their end.

“They won’t stop coming,” he’d said, eyes wild, the fear reflected deep in them.

When Louis asked to see the messages, Martin balked. He remembers it like it was only yesterday, like it had just happened. The look on Martin’s face, the turmoil, the indecision.

“I can’t do my job if you don’t cooperate. You have my discretion.”

“I have a reputation to keep up.”

Those words had given Louis pause. “We all have a reputation.” Louis said in response, not even sure what he’d meant.

“Promise me you will keep this to yourself … please.”

Louis had promised, reassuring Martin that he wouldn’t have had much of a business if he didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.

Only then had Martin handed over the small stack of cards. There had been one for every arrangement. Each one was ivory white and covered in a scratchy scrawl.

_These are the ones I’m going to scatter on your grave!_

_Don’t forget I know what you are!_

_To the most beautiful dead man I have ever seen_

_Had another dream about you baby_

_I hate everything about you. You disgust me!_

It took Louis a while to get through the entire stack, through all of the conflicting, bizarre, fucked up messages Martin had been receiving for months. At the end of each note was a dollar amount, steadily increasing over time. Martin wasn’t only being threatened he was being blackmailed and it was plain to Louis why. It was in the words burned into his retina, the words that Martin hadn’t wanted anyone to see. The reason he’d kept it all to himself for as long as he had, letting those flowers accumulate all over the room, scattering their dead and dying petals. The sickly sweet scent of them had pervaded Martin’s life and with each arrival, each demand, he’d retreated further into the fear, the helplessness.

Louis had looked at Martin’s stricken face after reading them all and felt a rage building inside of him, that sense of justice he’d always had stirring to life. The world had way too many assholes, too many people that quite frankly everyone would be better off without. Here was a cretin making his case to be added to that category.

He set out with a fierce determination after promising Martin that he would put a stop to the harassment, to the threats, the flowers, the fear. It had been one of his first cases, the nameplate on his desk still shiny. Louis didn’t sleep, didn’t function outside of finding the piece of shit responsible and he had.

_“It’s fucked up and wrong what he is.”_

_“Come near him again and I will kill you, non optional.”_

He’d perhaps been overzealous in it’s resolution. Striving for discretion, to keep the police uninvolved as per Martin’s instruction and Louis’ preference, Louis had instead ended up putting the very fear of god into the little weasel with the unhealthy obsession. Regardless of his methods he’d succeeded and then he’d kept tabs on that piece of human garbage. For years Louis knew his every move up until the time that karma got him and he ended up in a ditch on the outskirts of the city. He’d never told Martin about keeping up with his blackmailer’s whereabouts, they’d never spoken of it again.

Louis had counted on his skills to get the task done and he’d succeeded but what he hadn’t counted on was Martin himself to draw him in. He was impressed with Louis’ work and with Louis too. Martin felt safe for the first time in a long time and Louis couldn’t help but feel protective of him. It had been easy. At least at first. Easy in a way that it had never been for Louis. There was no judgement and no questions. He could be more of himself with Martin than he could be outside the walls of Martin’s oversized home.

Louis had loved him in a way. Though he could never boast of being in love with Martin. Then again, Louis knows he can’t pinpoint any time when he’s ever been in love with anyone at all. Regardless, he’s always known that his interests didn’t lie with women and well he’s fine with that. More than fine, he embraces it. It’s part of him, a real tangible bit even if he keeps it more tightly to his chest. He keeps everything tightly to his chest.

These were things that Martin understood, things that he echoed and so it hadn’t mattered. Martin said he didn’t want love, didn’t need it, he just needed Louis and Louis was only too happy to give.

Louis knows that being who he is isn’t always safe. Especially with his slight, curvy stature and bouncy walk. He’s covered these things in years of smoke and now he’s just another one of the guys. He hates that. He’s always been one of the guys. Who he takes to bed is of no ones concern. Why does he have to mind how he holds his wrist or cock his hip? But this is his world and for better or worse he’s carved out a piece of it and isn’t about to let it go without a fight. He’s had plenty. Fights that is. Lovers not so much. Louis has the knuckles of a man who’s bruised a few jaws and blackened plenty of eyes and the unmarred facial structure of a man used to victory. He isn’t a violent man but he has his pride and his sense of justice. No matter how much of himself he has to hide he’s determined to still keep himself whole.

To anyone on the outside he is enigmatic, cold, all sharp angles and bared teeth. Louis muses that when everyone sees you that way it’s hard not to become it. But he clings to the knowledge of his true self. He knows that if there was someone close enough to see, that he can be bright and funny, mischievous with boundless energy. At least he used to be … he thinks. With no one to see it anymore, somedays he isn’t sure if it’s still true. Who is he exactly if there’s no one to hold the mirror up so he can see?

Louis rolls his eyes at himself. Honestly, he needs to get out more. Get some of that city grime even deeper into his lungs than it already is. His fingers grip harder at the lip of his desk, bitten nails dragging against cheap wood.

Louis battles his demons by focusing on those of other people. Martin battled his in other ways. He drowned them. Drowned them in a sea of ambition and vice, needing the attentions of others to perhaps prove his worth. It wasn’t long until Martin tried to drown Louis too. They both needed things that the other couldn’t give. They both knew the end was coming. It was still a harsh blow when it did.

_“I know I’m not the only one Martin.”_

_“Yea well just like I know you don’t love me.”_

_“I do.”_

_“Not the way I need.”_

_“You said you didn’t need love, said you only needed me.”_

_“I lied.”_

God, Louis had tried. The thing that stuck out most about being a loner was the part about being alone. He hadn’t wanted to be alone again. He’d gotten a taste of what it could be like to have someone no matter how illusionary and even if it made him seem weak he didn’t want to go back. He turned a blind eye to anything that Martin did because he just didn’t want to go back. But there was no going forward either. He couldn’t fight Martin’s demons and Martin shouldn’t have had to grapple with his in the first place.

They’d blown apart in dramatic fashion, in the only way a flighty screen star and moody private investigator could. It had been a scene worthy of both of them. Heaving chests and broken glass. Louis hadn’t seen him since. Until today that is. He and Martin had burned hot and flamed out spectacularly but he was still a part of the patchwork of Louis’ past and now he was gone.

His knuckles have turned white now, his fingers trying to splinter the wood. There’s rain splattering against the lone window of his office and Louis has no idea when it started. Now that he’s aware of it he can hear the impact of every drop, his senses heightened as the anger rushes through him. He needs to break something or someone for this and soon.

He’s jolted from his dark thoughts by urgent rapping on the door out front. Louis startles jumping up from his perch. He stretches cramped fingers and smoothes clammy palms against his trousers. Whoever the hell’s outside, Louis isn’t interested in whatever the hell they want. Even if it’s a bill paying case - which he desperately needs - he knows he won’t take it on. He’s already consumed. The rapping continues and Louis’ eyebrows draw down into a severe frown. Some people just can’t take a hint.

Louis stomps through the small, narrow entryway and yanks the door open just as the unwanted visitor is making another attempt to rouse attention.

“What!”

The man on his doorstep stutters. Water drips from his brown curls and black trench coat. His mouth opens and closes a few times as the rain continues to pelt down on him.

Louis is speechless too. He recognises him from the crime scene but now, now he’s seeing his face. What a face. Large green eyes and wide plump lips, youthful and bright, unmarred by challenge and time. Without even meaning to, Louis steps aside and the young man comes through the doorway with halting steps.

Wordlessly Louis walks the short distance back to his office, the echo of soggy footsteps behind him. He sits himself back on the edge of his desk, this time putting a foot up on the chair usually reserved for visitors. Hopefully curly will get the hint and not overstay his welcome much longer than he already has.

“I’m Ha--Harry. Harry Styles with City Police.”

Louis folds his arms and watches him. The kid clears his throat clearly nervous. Good. He should be nervous. Louis’ not in the mood for whatever this is. Harry is twisting his hands together in front of his chest and Louis’ eyes are drawn to them. There’s a thin sliver band of his right index finger and he’s fiddling with it. Louis’ eyes are transfixed until Harry clears his throat again.

“Uhm, I know Jones said that you can’t be involved but … they’re saying it’s a robbery and … it seems like we’re the only two people who disagree.”

The words fly out of him in a whoosh like he’d been preparing those lines on the way there. Louis shouldn’t find it endearing but he does so he scoffs just because he thinks he should. Louis feels like his space is being invaded. Harry has only been here for a few minutes and already Louis feels surrounded. He knows he’s drawn to him. Louis’ eyes had found Harry at that crime scene and had wanted to stay glued and that was when his back had been the primary view.

Harry starts to fidget, clearly taking Louis’ silence for hesitation. He isn’t wrong. “Look Lewis--”

“Don’t call me that, it’s not my fucking name,” Louis snaps.

“That’s what Jones called you,” Harry says, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Louis points to the scratched up name plate on his cluttered desk. “Louis Tomlinson, kid. Lou-ie.” He emphasises just because he can. “Jones is an asshole. Most of City PD are assholes. Are you an asshole?”

“No-- no,” Harry says, then he lifts his chin, squaring his shoulders. “Also, I’m not a kid. I can tell I’m not even that much younger than you. I am a crime scene investigator with City PD and I’m good at it.”

“You’ve still got baby fat.”

“No I don’t.” There’s adamance in Harry’s voice and something that looks like a hint of a pout on his lips.

In any case, he really doesn’t. He’s clearly well into his twenties but Louis is in a shitty mood.

Then, Harry draws himself up to his full height and says, “You’re the height of a grade schooler but you don’t hear me calling you kid.”

Louis’ eyes flash and his mouth falls open. Not the height. Never the height. It wasn’t even true, there were only a couple inches of difference between them. He has to admit though, the kid-- Harry has gall. He likes that. Life takes balls. It takes them and crushes them but it’s still necessary to start out with a nice set. Louis shakes his head. He really doesn’t need to be thinking about Harry’s balls in any capacity. He has to fight a smile because he will not let Harry think he’s made any headway at all.

“Alright Harry,” Louis says, “But mention my height again and I will scratch your eyes out.”

Harry just stares hard for a moment. Louis realises then that his eyes are not only green and bright but they are intense, almost hard, and damn near intimidating. Louis makes a concentrated effort not to shift under the gaze. This is his office, his space. Thankfully, Harry’s attention goes elsewhere as he nods his agreement. What is this guy’s deal? Louis can’t help but wonder. He’s intrigued. He has no time for intrigue. This is a mistake, he can already feel it in his bones.

Harry’s shifting stacks of paper off a chair in the corner of the room adding them to the growing piles already on the threadbare carpet. Where did that chair even come from? It had been so covered up that Louis had forgotten it was there.

“Make yourself at home.” Icy sarcasm drips from Louis’ lips as he mumbles the words but Harry seems completely immune as he seats himself, dropping a heavy looking satchel next to the chair. He crosses his legs and wedges his hands between his thighs as he leans forward and looks up at Louis under long lashes and with slightly parted lips. And well, that’s just sinful. _Who sits like that?_ Louis takes Harry in. Damp curls resting against a razor sharp jawline lined up right above the upturned coat collar. It is a fucking good look. Now Louis’ even more irritated than he had been when Harry first walked through the door.

Louis stands, needing to get away from the visual, from the pretty pretty picture that is Harry Styles. He paces to the window pulling apart the blinds to see the water pelting down on the city. The rain’s turning the city muddy brown instead of washing it clean. Somewhere out there the piece of shit who’d done this horrible thing to Martin is living and breathing. Do they think they’ve gotten away with it? They’ve snatched a piece of Louis whole, ripped it out and shredded it. This is what he needs to concentrate on. This is the only thing that matters. How much more will this fucking city take from him before he snaps and burns it to the ground?

“So where do we start?”

Louis’ eyes narrow at the sound of Harry’s deep voice. Clearly somewhere in their brief exchange Harry has gotten the idea that they will be working together. Louis wants to tell him to get lost, that he’s got important work to do but the idea of Harry by his side thrills him. He curls his lip, frustrated, confused and more than a little annoyed.

“I have no idea Styles.” Louis releases the blinds with a satisfying snapping sound as he turns to face his new partner. He can probably use someone who’s disgruntled with the higher ups at City PD. Harry looks momentarily disappointed until Louis continues, “But I’ve got a friend we should pay a visit to.”


	2. Tea, Whiskey, Smoke, and Ash

“Who’s this guy we’re going to see?” Harry narrowly avoids a puddle as he does his best to keep up with Louis’ pace. Harry may be taller with longer legs and a wider stride but Louis’ faster. He notes this with some satisfaction.

“Keep up,” He says in response.

Louis is used to doing these things with only himself for company. He’s not even sure how he’s supposed to let someone else into the mess that’s swirling in his mind. It seems like Harry doesn’t understand the concept of solitude, how you can be amongst others and still alone. He’s been chattering since Louis pulled on his coat and headed out into the dingy evening air. Harry’s like a puppy Louis muses, nipping at his heels.

“Oh Come on, we’re working together aren’t we?”

Louis whirls to face Harry, his open trench coat billowing with the movement “I get the impression if I’d refused you’d still follow me down the street anyway.”

Harry says nothing, just fixes Louis with one of his intense stares. Louis shakes his head and turns back around. The moments Harry chooses to be silent are always effective and slightly unnerving. Louis needs to stay focused, intent on his destination. They’re almost there.

“I’ve got no idea where to start with this,” Louis says, “So I figured might as well visit Liam Payne.” There, that’s a lot of information. Surely Harry will be satisfied.

“How do you know him?” Harry asks from beside him, finally catching up and matching Louis’ pace.

Louis takes a deep, steadying breath. “He’s a bodyguard of Martin’s on my recommendation.”

“That doesn’t really answer--”

“We’re here.”

Where they’ve ended up is a dodgy underground fighting club. Not that there are underground fighting clubs in the city that aren’t dodgy. It’s that this one is especially nasty. Only the roughest come through here. There’s no rules here, no etiquette. It’s bare knuckle and dirty and it pays the most. These are the guys that aren’t just looking for a fight, they’re the ones looking to get hit a few times too. Well, almost all of them. Liam hardly ever gets the chance. He’s too busy knocking teeth out with one hit.

They push past sweaty bodies trying to get a glimpse of the makeshift ring so Louis can see who’s fighting. The loud cries of the crowd are deafening, swelling to a crescendo with every hit, every smack of bone against sweat slicked skin. Louis spares Harry a glance and sees that he’s looking a bit green. Louis doesn’t blame him.

They’ve pushed through to the front now and Louis follows Harry’s scandalised gaze to the blood stained ring. Harry’s police instincts are probably telling him that most of these people should be in prison for some reason or another. Louis has the same instincts. Places like this always make his stomach churn though he’s more familiar with them than he cares to admit. Louis looks up just in time to see Liam secure another victory. The crowd roars, baying for blood, seeming almost restless, disappointed that this particular bout is already over. Liam is quick, he never wastes time. He’s efficient and deadly, two of the many reasons Louis had recommended him to Martin’s security detail.

“Let’s head to the back.” Louis has to shout the words into Harry’s ear to be heard as the jostling of the crowd increases to uncomfortable levels. Louis makes sure that Harry’s following before he makes his way to the opposite side of the cramped space.

The back room is ripe with old sweat and mould. Blood streaked towels, and discarded clothing cover scuffed up benches and the chipped tile floor. Louis likes to act unaffected but even he has to wrinkle his nose in disgust. He spies Harry in the corner of the room, that green colour he’s taken on only deepening. He looks like he’s two seconds away from pulling out a handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth. Louis makes a face, teasing him with a smirk. Harry is less than impressed.

“Louis!”

Liam comes sauntering through the doors, hangers-on in tow, one older man tugging at the wrappings around his fists and two beautiful girls eager for time with the winner. Liam lifts his fists in a fighting stance, the white wrappings, dirty and stained red. He mock jabs at Louis’ torso and Louis cracks a genuine smile. Liam’s all tall muscle with the kind of face that can easily fool a man into thinking he can be messed with. Even covered in sweat and another man’s blood Liam manages to look something near to innocent. It’s the smile and the way it puffs up his cheeks.

Louis catches Harry’s eyes sweeping up and down Liam’s half naked body in a way that suggests more than cursory examination. Louis feels a slight heat travelling through his gut, threatening to colour his face so he turns his head for a moment to get himself back under control. Spying a punching bag Louis decides to pour this odd feeling into it.

“Still fighting I see Liam,” Louis says between jabs.

“More importantly, still wining,” Liam says around a smile.

Louis laughs lightly at that, continuing his punches, feeling the scratchy material of the bag dragging roughly against his knuckles.

“So what brings you by Louis? Feels like I haven’t seen you in years my friend.”

Thinking of the purpose of his visit, Louis’ jabs increase in power and frequency. His fists are stinging now and he should probably stop. “It’s Martin, I need something to go on Liam.”

Liam sits back heavily at the mention of Martin’s name. He waves away the people who’d come into the room with him, asking them to give them some space. He sits tense until the door closes leaving only the three of them in the room. Just as he’s about to speak, Liam’s mouth snaps shut. Confused and impatient Louis stops his ministrations and follows Liam’s line of sight to Harry. Harry who’s pulled out a notepad. Louis want’s to roll his eyes and smack Harry upside the head. He does neither. He walks over and snatches the notepad away stuffing it inside his coat. With a quirked brow he gives Harry a look and he thinks Harry gets it. He’s not a policeman here. Police are not to be trusted. Ever.

“Don’t mind him--” Louis says turning back to face Liam, “--he’s the new assistant.”

Louis can see Harry in his periphery practically vibrating with the desire to protest but he thinks better of it choosing instead to sulk in the corner with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his trousers. Louis isn’t fooled. He knows that despite the pout on his pretty lips, Harry’s eyes and ears are completely focused.

“Business must be good if you’re taking on assistants. If you need hired muscle you know I’m good,” Liam says, relaxing.

Louis scoffs. “I’m all the muscle I need Liam.”

“Sure Lou. You’re scrappy I’ll give you that.”

“Anyway, Martin. You know anything?”

“There’s not much for me to know man. He fired me a long time ago.”

This is news to Louis. When had this happened? Has he really been that out of touch?

“What happened?” He asks.

Liam hesitates again, flicking his eyes up to Harry and away. “I don’t know if I should say anything...”

Louis feels his pulse picking up, he thinks he knows what Liam’s hesitation is about and he really doesn’t know how Harry will react if he’s right.

He takes a chance. “It’s okay Liam, I just need to know anything that can help.”

“Okay.” For the first time since entering the room Liam looks fidgety and uncomfortable. “He fired me, said he didn’t need me around anymore. Said he had his own security service.”

Harry perks up at that bit of information. He pushes himself off the wall he’d been slumped against and shuffles closer, his interest clearly piqued. Louis’ eyebrows rise and blood is rushing through his veins. This might be something. They’re so close to a lead, he can feel it.

Liam leans forward resting his elbows on his knees. “You should’ve seen these guys Lou, he had a whole gaggle of tough guys hanging around. I know he was making real money but still, it was excessive man, way too much.”

“Any idea what company he was using?” Harry pipes up for the first time.

“This wasn’t anything legit,” Liam says rubbing his fingers against his stubbled chin. “Probably paid for by one his … admirers.”

Louis takes a deep breath. He spares Harry a glance and sees his eyes narrow a little as if he’s trying to work out exactly what Liam means by admirers. Louis closes his eyes briefly before putting his attention back on Liam’s face.

“Got any names for me?” Louis tries to maintain his cool as he asks.

Liam’s bushy eyebrows draw together as he thinks. Louis does his best to keep still while he waits. “Last I heard was a James … James something, Elliot maybe. That’s all I got man.” He practically whispers the words, eyes cautious, looking around even though he knows there’s no one else in earshot.

Louis understands Liam’s reluctance, he understands it completely and it feels like a stab to the gut. “Thanks Liam,” he says, putting a hand briefly on Liam’s shoulder.

Liam looks genuinely disappointed that he can’t come up with more. Louis doesn’t mind, it’s something that they can use.

Harry remains quiet beside him and Louis’ burning to know what he’s thinking about what Liam just told them. Is he still as determined to help as he was when he walked into Louis’ office? Louis is preoccupied with these questions, distracted from his purpose as he turns to leave. Harry’s right behind him, softly thanking Liam for his time and falling into step with Louis’ retreating figure.

“Hey Louis,” His name on Liam’s lips stops him and Louis turns his head to see over his shoulder. “Don’t be a stranger yea?” Liam’s bushy eyebrows are drawn up, hopeful.

Louis nods brusquely, he doesn’t know how else to react, and walks away.

The journey back to Louis’ is decidedly more quiet than their sojourn to the club. Louis can’t help but be rueful. Now that he wishes to hear Harry’s thoughts he seems determined to keep them to himself. He walks beside Louis moving briskly along the dark pavement keeping his own council, hands in his pockets and head slightly down against the chilly wind that has arisen with the fall of night. An intermittent drizzle spatters around them as they push through the dimly lit streets. It seems Harry does understand the concept of solitude after all. Louis feels incredibly alone.

The relative silence continues as Louis unlocks his front door. He bypasses the door leading to his sparse living quarters and heads straight back to his office. Harry immediately seats himself in the same chair he’d commandeered earlier, pulling at the worn leather satchel he’d stashed under it before they’d left.

“Tea?” Louis asks, unable to deal with the quiet any longer.

“Yes please, thank you.” Harry flicks his eyes up towards Louis’ face and away as he fumbles with the clasps on his bag.

Louis leaves him to it, pulling his coat off and draping it over the other empty chair before making his way out of the room. Louis loosens his tie, pulling at the knot as he stands for a moment gathering himself before reaching into the cupboard for the tin of black tea he always keeps handy. He pries the lid off, fingers grappling for purchase against the cool metal. It’s getting low he notices. Abruptly he smacks the tin down onto the laminated surface of the kitchenette counter. Pressing his palms down, Louis hangs his head and takes a deep breath.

It doesn’t matter what Harry thinks anyway. If he has a problem with what he’d heard about Martin then the problem is with him and no one else. Louis huffs as he pushes off the counter to fill his battered kettle with water. He bangs in onto the stove top with more force than necessary. Louis knows he’s working himself up into a state without having the facts. He knows this and still he can’t help it. If he puts the walls up now then they’ll have more time to solidify and he’ll be better prepared if it goes south.

He spends his time making the tea, thinking about appropriate responses to anything Harry might say about what Liam told them, about whose company Martin preferred. Louis thinks of ways to defend it, to make it clear to Harry that he won’t accept or tolerate any negativity without causing Harry to question Louis himself. When he thinks he’s ready he takes the two steaming mugs and makes his way back to his office.

Louis stops just outside the doorway and sees Harry riffling through thick stacks of paper. His brows are drawn down and there’s a pout on his lips as he concentrates. Louis feels weak and unbalanced and it unnerves him. He steels himself and pushes into the room, placing the chipped mugs of tea on his desk.

Harry looks up at his entry, tracking his movements and thanking him for the tea. He reaches a hand out, long, slender fingers curling around the handle of the closest mug, the ring on his index finger clinking softly against the white porcelain.

“I didn’t have any milk, it’s gone off,” Louis says as Harry takes a swig of the dark liquid and grimaces slightly.

“That’s fine, it’s really just the caffeine I’m after, not the taste,” Harry assures him as he takes another gulp.

Louis hums in response and is about to ask Harry about the unfamiliar stacks of paper in his lap and scattered on the floor around him when Harry sets his tea down and clears his throat.

“Louis, I just want to say--”

 _Here it comes_ , Louis thinks.

“I understand why your friend was reluctant to talk about Martin’s lover. I want you to know that it doesn’t matter to me that he was with a man. I don’t think it should matter to anyone, at least not in a way that’s bad. Love is love and as far as I’m concerned there isn’t nearly enough of it in this fucking city.”

Louis sits heavily, tea in hand, causing some of the hot liquid to slosh over the edge and burn his skin. He grits his teeth through the unpleasant sensation and finds an immense relief flooding through him. He hides himself behind the rim of the mug, taking a sip of the quite frankly abysmal tea to give himself a bit of time. Louis is grateful that his worry was unwarranted. He thinks now that he wouldn’t have been able to deal with it if Harry had shown any distaste. He’s so used to it, the casual remarks from others in conversation, the headlines that are becoming more prominent in the newspapers, that to hear it from Harry wouldn’t have been a shock but Louis knows it would’ve hurt him more than if it had come from anyone else. He’s just met Harry and already he’s hoping for more from him than he has from anyone ever. It touches Louis to his core that so far Harry has delivered. It  also grates at him, rubs him raw because he knows better than to trust. His instincts are betraying him and Louis feels adrift.

“Louis?” Harry is looking at him, searching and Louis doesn’t need him seeing.

“I’m glad you see it that way Harry. Needless to say this needs to stay between us.”

“Absolutely. You have my word.”

Louis picks himself up, sets his tea back down and makes his away around his desk to sit behind it instead, putting a clear line of separation between him and Harry. He wants the distance, he needs to reclaim his space.

“This tea is terrible by the way, I knew I said I only wanted the caffeine but goddammit man!”

Louis chuckles at Harry’s sudden outburst, setting himself off-kilter again and Harry seems very pleased with himself as he pushes the offending beverage far away from him.

“Anyway, I’ve got some stuff here that might help.” Harry gestures at the papers in his hands and Louis leans forward, alert. “I would’ve just left them with you if you hadn’t let me tag along on this,” Harry says quietly.

Harry hands over two stacks, picking more up off the floor as Louis riffles through them. It’s a jumble of screenplays, contracts, letters and other scraps of paper.

“Where’d you get these?” Louis asks, brows drawn into a frown.

“From Martin’s office. I swiped as much as I could when no one was looking.”

Louis lifts his eyes to Harry’s face seeing a sheepish smile on his lips.

“What? I knew they were going to bury this case. Anyway, it was just meaningless paper without context but now, thanks to Liam we’ve got a sense of direction at least. There might be something in here.”

This is good. Louis is almost begrudging in his silent acknowledgement. A member of City PD who breaks the law, nothing surprising there. They divide the stacks and Louis lights a cigarette as they settle in. It’s not long before Harry bums one off him and lights up as well and time ticks by as they scan through the stacks, mostly silent, reading through a haze of smoke.

Louis feels his eyes growing heavy as they push through, discarding irrelevant scraps of paper. He almost wants to call it a night. Nothing is jumping out at him. He steals a glance at Harry and sees him dozing, slouched in his chair. His head lolls, brown curls falling forward obscuring his cheekbones. A bundle of papers slip free from his grasp and land in a crumpled mess of pages at his feet. The noise it makes startles him and he sits up, face colouring when his eyes connect with Louis’.

“Sorry,” Harry says and his voice is rough, deeper than usual, tinged with exhaustion.

The quality of it captures louis and he turns the one word around in his mind just to replay the sound of it.

“It’s okay, you can head home I’ll finish up.”

“No, no, I’m fine. I don’t w-- need to go home.”

Louis squints, looking hard at Harry for a moment. He could swear that Harry was about to say he didn’t _want_ to go home. Louis’ not sure why but he finds himself offering Harry his couch insisting that he take a nap even through Harry’s adamant protests that it’s unnecessary.

Louis finally wins and leads him back into the entryway and through the doorway on the left. He feels a bit self conscious as Harry follows him into the small space. The cramped living area with its threadbare carpet and beat up couch, the kitchenette and small dining area all occupy one room. A narrow archway leads through to his bedroom and bathroom. At least it’s not too messy besides the layer of dust everywhere. He hardly spends any time in here moving between his office and his bedroom most days.

Harry seems genuinely impressed however and grateful as his sinks into the worn cushions. He promises Louis he’ll be no longer than a half hour at most, his words slurring as his eyes close and his breathing evens out almost immediately. Louis takes a moment to envy someone who can fall asleep so quickly, then he takes another moment to admire how peaceful Harry looks. His jawline stands out in sharp relief as he lies sideways on the couch, tendrils of his hair splayed across his cheek. Louis’ fingers itch to brush them away from his face. Instead he stuffs his hands in his pockets and goes back to his desk, picking up where he left off.

He’s going through a small stack of envelopes when one causes him to freeze in place. Louis stares at Martin’s scrawl and his own address stares back at him. Martin had written to him, written to him but hadn’t sent it. Why? Did he change his mind? Did he not get a chance to?

With a trembling hand Louis drops the other letters onto the desk, some of them slip from the edge and fall to the floor but he doesn’t notice. He turns the envelope over and it’s sealed, undisturbed and Louis’ grateful for that. He runs a finger along the edge of it for one long moment before tearing into  it, forgoing the letter opener he knows he has hidden somewhere under all of his clutter. The sound of ripping paper echoes in the room making him wince and then it’s in his hands. They shake as they unfold the single page, expensive heavy paper feeling like steel-wool under his sensitive fingertips.

> Dear Louis,
> 
> I don’t even know if I’m going to send this, I don’t even know what to say. It’s been so long that it doesn’t even feel right asking for your help but I think I might need it. I think I might be in trouble.  I thought I was free, thought everything would be better now but I don’t think it is.. It might be worse. Not everyone is as kind as you, as good as you.
> 
> There’s things I want to say that I can’t. Things I need you to know but I won’t risk putting down on paper. Please come and see me, we should talk about everything.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Martin 

_Sincerely Martin._ Louis’ fist closes around the letter before he realises what he’s doing. Quickly relaxing his hand, he places the page flat on his desk and tries to smooth it out, tries to return it to the way it had been, just two creased folds, but it’s impossible.

He feels an oppressive weight settling around him. It feels a lot like guilt as irrational as he knows it is. It’s not his fault Martin was killed, he chose not to or couldn’t send the letter, there was no way for Louis to have known. He wonders what it could mean, what Martin had gotten himself into. Did it have something to do with this _admirer_ James Elliot or whatever his name was? Louis makes a fist, banging it hard onto the wooden surface. He feels like he’s suffocating, like he can’t get enough air into his lungs even though he’s pretty sure the room is filled with it. But it’s all dirty, all wrong, too much smoke, too much dust, too much grit. Nothing here is pure, nothing in this city is right.

The wrinkled page flutters to the ground as Louis holds his head in his hands. Elbows propped up on his worn work surface, he slouches forward and grips at his hair. He feels the stiffness of it from the product he carelessly laced it with to keep his quiff in place. He runs his fingers through it over and over, dislodging it, making a mess because none of that matters, it’s all superficial in the end.

Before he’d heard about Martin’s death Louis hadn’t thought about him in any substantial way in years, not since he’d went to check up on the trash who’d threatened Martin and found out he’d died. Louis had let it all go then, watching Martin’s star rise from afar, content with that but now everything had crashed back into him with more force than he could’ve ever anticipated and superimposed over all of it were intense green eyes.

Louis pinches the bridge of his nose, rapidly blinking his eyes, trying to clear his mind. He can’t do these two things at once. He can’t be on this case and have Harry so close. Harry who’s sleeping on his couch, who’s tall and beautiful and open and mysterious. This man who’s essentially a stranger but is managing to make him feel things with just his mere presence that Louis hasn’t felt in ages.

Louis’ past and present have converged and he doesn’t know how Harry’s supposed to fit into it. It’s stealing his focus. Even now with a letter Martin had written to him in his own hand, probably shortly before he was killed, Louis’ mind is still pushing images of Harry to the forefront of his consciousness.

He’s only known Harry for a day. He’s being ridiculous. He needs alcohol. There’s an empty bottle of bourbon on the bookcase in the corner. Another lies on it’s side next to his desk, not even enough for a proper mouthful. Louis leans and scoops it up, twists the cap and throws it back. He feels the burn of it and it’s not nearly enough. He stands and makes his way to his overflowing filing cabinet, crouching and pulling open the lowest drawer, it goes with an annoying screeching sound but he’s rewarded with a full bottle of his favourite whiskey, no bourbon. _All bourbon is whiskey but not all whiskey is bourbon._ Louis rolls his eyes as he opens the bottle and puts it to his lips. It’s something Martin always said.

“Mind sharing?”

Harry’s rough voice startles Louis and he sputters. Wiping the back of his hand across his lips Louis takes him in, ten times more rumpled than before, no less captivating. He passes the bottle over and Harry takes it as he seats himself in his usual chair. He takes a swig and Louis watches as Harry’s pink lips press against the bottle right where his had just been. He has to take a breath through his mouth to keep his composure but he knows he has to get his lips back on that bottle now that Harry’s had it.

“Don’t be greedy Styles.”

Harry smirks at him handing the alcohol over and Louis takes it, taking a big gulp of the amber liquid as he rounds his desk to reclaim his distance. He imagines that he can taste Harry right there on the edge of the glass. He knows he can’t and he tells himself he doesn’t want to. Louis puts the bottle down with a loud thunk, he can feel a headache coming.

“Good nap?”

“Good enough, I needed it, thanks.”

Louis waves away his gratitude.

“Find anything useful?” Harry asks as he picks up where he’d left off.

Louis thinks about telling him about the letter, contemplates showing it to Harry but in the end decides not to. There’s something too personal there in light of what Harry knows about Martin now. Louis doesn’t want to run the risk of revealing too much no matter what Harry may have said to him earlier about being okay with Martin being gay. Harry may have gone rogue on this, refusing to believe the official line of a robbery gone bad, it may show that he’s got some moral fibre, some sense of justice and a notion of right and wrong but he’s still with the police. Louis has to be careful.

“Not yet,” Louis says, picking the letter up off the floor and sliding it into his desk drawer out of Harry’s view.

Louis tries to go back to the rest of the pile, tries to concentrate on the task at hand but his brain is frazzled. The single electric bulb lighting his office, makes a sizzling sound, blinking in and out a few times and Harry looks up at the distraction, his eyes connecting with Louis’ on their way back to down to the papers in his lap. Louis doesn’t know what Harry sees there, he can only hope he isn’t baring his soul.

Louis averts his eyes to the sole window in the room. The blinds are open and it’s almost dawn. Dirty grey light is struggling to filter down to the streets, trying to find a path through the densely packed buildings. He rubs his eyes and attempts to get on with it but the words are jumbling together now, just masses of black ink and smudges.

Harry’s huffing to himself, small sounds of amusement as he reads through what looks to be a screenplay from where Louis’ sitting. Curiosity bites at him and he’s so close to asking Harry what he’s reading. Louis can’t even remember to be irritated that they’re both distracted from the task at hand.

He’s just about to give in when he hears Harry’s voice pitched high and dramatic, “No Herschel I can’t _possibly_ go on without you.”

Jerking his head up too quickly Louis stares as Harry continues, this time in an exaggerated deep voice, “I’ll always be with you Janie … here.” Harry presses a hand to his heart, furrows his brow and closes his eyes in a show of being greatly affected.

That’s when Louis loses it. He’s laughing, loud and bright. Exhaustion,  grief, confusion and the ridiculous man seated across from him are too much at this hour. He puts a hand to his mouth trying to stifle the mirth and for the first time he hears Harry’s laugh. It’s a guffawing, almost a cackle and it fuels Louis’ own. He shakes his head in an attempt to curb his silliness but another look at Harry and Louis sees dimples, one in particular carved deep juxtaposed against his puffy cheeks. Louis sighs on an intake of breath, wipes at his eyes and forces the laughter away.

“You can’t be serious,” Louis says, finally settling.

“Oh I am, this screenplay is a masterpiece.” Harry is still chuckling.

“Who’s responsible for that gem?”

Harry flips back to the beginning, “Uhm James Elsner written for Full Stop Pictures.”

As soon as the words are out they both freeze for one moment until there’s a mad ruffling of papers as they begin to grab at the other screenplays. There’s something about that name. Louis’ sure he’s seen it more than once.

Louis snatches two battered scripts. “Aha, these two are by Elsner, same production company.”

“I’ve got another one,” Harry chimes in holding it up. “Do you think this is our guy?”

Louis doesn’t answer right away, he’s too busy pushing papers aside. Finally he finds what he’s after. “A contract, Martin is signed exclusively with Full Stop.”

Harry stretches for it and Louis hands it over feeling a small thrill of excitement. This is progress no matter how small. Harry scans the words quickly, leg bouncing as he does.

“Elliot, Elsner, it’s not a match but Liam did say he wasn’t sure. It’s close enough for me to want to poke around,” Louis says.

Harry bites a nail as he contemplates Louis’ words. “Plus, this ties them together at least. What do you have in mind?”

“Get his address and quietly see what we find. This has to stay under wraps.”

Harry nods gravely. He stretches his long limbs and stands, “What do you need me to do?” He asks, voice eager.

“I need you to go home, rest, give me some time to dig up an address.” Harry looks like he wants to protest but Louis doesn’t give him the chance. “I’m sure you’ve got to work anyway, there’s always a crime scene somewhere in this city. You don’t want to get in trouble with the higher ups, we don’t need the extra attention.”

Harry shuffles awkwardly for moment, eyes looking everywhere but at Louis. Louis feels a prick of confusion until Harry’s turning to him, eyes wide with mock innocence.

“You won’t go without me right? We’re partners.”

Louis huffs at the display and bites back the sarcastic comment that’s bubbling on his sharp tongue. “I won’t.”

Immediately Louis’ tempted to break that promise if only because he can’t believe he even made it in the first place. But he gave his word and he always keeps his word.

After Harry leaves Louis gives himself a moment. He gives himself a brief five minutes with Martin’s letter, the bottle of whiskey and his pain. Martin was his past but it hurts and he knows that he has to confront that. It’s not his way. His way is to bury it, bury it deep, but he’s running out of room. So he sits. He briefly wonders if he should cry. He doesn’t but he lets everything wash over him in waves and then he strikes a match and holds the corner of the letter over the flame. He drops it into one of his ashtrays and watches it become ash. Louis’ eyes burn from the smoke, he feels the sting. When it’s consumed he leaves. He’s got an address to find.


	3. A Halo In The Lamplight

“Do you have any idea how many laws we’re breaking right now?”

“I wasn’t aware this place had laws Harry.” Louis is only being half sarcastic. “Besides you didn’t seem too concerned when you stole from the scene of a crime.”

“That’s not the same.”

“The difference is arbitrary.”

“Not really.” Harry rolls his eyes on a lopsided smirk. He’s silent for a moment and Louis is just able to regain his concentration. Then, “This is exciting,” Harry whispers as he inches his way to the end of the hallway to peek around the corner.

Louis shakes his head. Harry really is proving to be the worst lookout in the history of criminal activity. Louis tries his best to ignore him, jiggling the lock pick a little. He makes delicate movements as he feels for the mechanism. Lock picking is an art and Louis takes it quite seriously. Almost there. A quiet laugh, that sounds more like a giggle, startles him causing his hand to slip and he loses the tumblers he’d already managed to catch.

Louis turns his head, incredulous. Harry’s tiptoeing back to him. _Tiptoeing_. Louis doesn’t know whether to be annoyed or amused. He feels the corners of his lips tugging upwards without his permission.

“Sorry I thought I heard something--”

“And your reaction was to make a noise?” Louis throws a hand up before turning and resuming his task.

Harry shrugs. “Espionage makes me jumpy.” Harry crouches next to him with a  small smile.

“Espionage?” Louis whispers harshly, eyebrows almost to his hairline. “No wonder this city is in the state it is. The police have no idea what crimes are what. Now stop talking, let me concentrate.”

Harry makes a zipping motion with his hand across his lips and Louis knows he’s being teased. He smiles a little despite himself and takes a fortifying breath before continuing his work. He’s resolute on ignoring Harry and getting inside as soon as possible. If they’re depending on Harry not to get caught then Louis figures the odds are not looking good.

Success! Louis allows himself a second to mentally pat himself on the back. Then he pushes the door open.

“Impressive,” Harry whispers with sincerity, the heat of his breath colliding with Louis’ skin.

If Louis lets himself he will blush and that’s not acceptable. He chooses not to respond and they both creep into Elliot Elsner’s apartment. They’d figured that no one was home and no one had been for at least a full day. They’d been staking the place out since the previous evening and there had been no lights or movement past any of the windows.

“And here I thought your office was a mess,” Harry says, turning in a wide circle to take in the state of the room.

“It’s organised chaos, I have a system.” He doesn’t have a system. He doesn’t have anything remotely resembling organisation but still he couldn’t let Harry’s jab go unchallenged.

“If you say so.” Harry’s voice is easy and a bit smug as he moves about the cluttered space.

“This place has either been ransacked or someone left in a hurry,” Louis muses mostly to himself. He thinks it’s the latter. Desk drawers have been left open, there’s clothing strewn over the sofa and the backs of chairs in the living room. A peek into the bedroom shows him that the situation there is much the same. Walking back to the centre of the main room Louis places his hands on his hips and surveys the space. Where the hell is Elliot Elsner and why did he run?

“If he’s done a runner it makes him a prime suspect in my mind.” Harry’s voice drifts over to him from the corner of the room and Louis can’t say that he disagrees. Guilty men run but then again, in Louis’ experience, so do innocent ones.

Searching Elliot’s desk Louis comes up with more half written screenplays, hastily scrawled ideas and a stack of payslips. He flips through a few and comes to two realisations. Firstly, Elliot’s pay is in accordance with his work and his living space. The place their standing in is nice. It’s spacious with a good bit of natural light. A definite step up from his cramped quarters. There’s even a beat up television in the corner, it’s antenna bent and twisted, small luxuries.

The second thing Louis notices is that while Elliot isn’t doing too badly for himself, his pay and this apartment aren’t nearly enough to be able to afford private security for his lover and definitely not what Liam had described. Something doesn’t sit right with Louis, something’s very off with this entire situation.

“This is a pretty nice record player.”

Louis swivels at the sound of Harry’s voice and sees him running his fingers along the wood panelling the casing. He’s almost caressing it and Louis’ eyes zone right in to the way his lithe hands move. He clears his throat and averts his gaze. “You’re not stealing the record player Harry.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Louis silently regards him with a raised eyebrow. “I wasn’t!” Harry throws his hands up, palms out. “I take something one time…” Harry continues to grumble as they poke around the living room. “I was just saying being a scriptwriter pays nicely, it’s a definite step up from my shitty bedsit is all.”

There’s a pout on Harry’s lips. Louis doesn’t need to see him to know that, he can hear it in his voice. However, Louis doesn’t pay any mind to Harry being put out. He’s too busy imagining Harry Styles and a bed. Louis savours it for a moment, the image so potent he can almost taste it when he flicks his tongue out to lick at his lips. He forcefully wipes the image away. It’s neither the time nor the place.

Louis’ about to say something when he hears a rattling sound. He whips his head towards the sound and they both freeze, listening. Someone’s turning the doorknob. Harry and Louis regard each other with wide eyes before dashing into other rooms and out of sight. Harry makes for the bedroom while Louis leaps over the back of the sofa. He backs himself through the archway separating the kitchen from the living room and tucks himself against the kitchen wall.

The door pushes open, creaky on its hinges and Louis doesn’t move, he doesn’t breathe. His heart is beating a rhythm in staccato, his senses on high alert. He strains his ears to listen and he hears squeaking and muffled footsteps. With a frown etched onto his face Louis peeks around the refrigerator and sees a middle aged woman pushing a cleaning cart. Louis breathes a quiet sigh willing his pulse back down. This isn’t a threat. It’s a possibility for information.

Louis pushes off from the wall, adopts his most confident stance and makes his presence known. He strolls lazily into the living room trying to appear as non threatening as he can. Still the woman jumps back with a gasp and a hand clutched to her chest, fright clear on her features. “Who--who are you?” Her breathing is erratic and Louis tries to make his expression open and friendly.

“Hi, I’m so sorry I startled you.” His smile is wide and bright, she was already melting under its attention. “I’m a close and dear friend of Elliot’s. He gave me a set of keys to his place.” Louis quickly dangles his own set of keys for her to see before hiding them away again lest she gets the change to have a proper look.

His smile turns bashful and a bit of colour fills the woman’s cheeks as she returns it with one of her own. “Oh--I see. I guess that’s alright then.”

“The thing is,” Louis says with grave concern as he pushes his hands into his coat pockets. “I’ve been so worried.” Louis’ lips turn down a little at the corners. “I haven’t heard from Elliot in days. Do you happen to know if he’s alright?” Louis turns the full strength of his soulful blue eyes on the woman and she is wholly unprepared for the onslaught. In his periphery he can see Harry peeking out of the bedroom barely keeping his laughter contained.

“Oh honey, I’m sorry you’ve been so worried. Mr. Elsner told me he was going on a last minute business trip.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Yes, so no need to worry dear.” She pats Louis’ arm seeking to reassure him and Louis thanks her profusely for easing his worries. He distracts her with idle talk while Harry slips by, silently making his way out the door. With one last goodbye Louis makes his own way out, finding Harry leaning against the stairway’s railing waiting for him.

“You were so convincing, that was brilliant.” Harry praises him as they make their way down the flights of stairs at a pace that suggests they belong there. Harry chatters away beside them as they descend but there’s a sense of unease rolling in Louis’ gut that keeps him quiet. It’s dark on the stairs and Louis realises that the light scones along the wall aren’t lit. They are shrouded in shadows as they move towards the outside world.

In the lobby he feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise and he rubs at the spot. Turning to look at where they’d just came from, Louis sees that Harry has a look of intense concentration on his face as he too looks back towards the stairs.

“Ever get the feeling your being watched?” Harry says quietly.

Louis looks back into the gathering shadow. He doesn’t see anything, no movement of any kind. He shrugs his shoulder and pushes through the main doors leaving Harry to follow behind. The feeling of unease remains.

Outside, evening is descending around them and Harry gathers his coat tight around himself. “There’s something off about this whole thing.” He’s looking back at the building they’ve just left as their steps take them further away.

“Someone’s been murdered of course there’s something _off._ ”

Martin’s not just someone though is he?”

“Less questions, more walking.” Louis avoids looking at Harry’s face. He doesn’t want to see Harry’s eyes scrutinising him.

“You know Louis, you say that a lot. Talk to me.” Harry reaches out and places a hand on Louis’ shoulder.

Louis stops to face Harry fully. He steps back a little so that Harry’s hand falls away but before it does it slides across the fabric of Louis’ coat until it loses purchase. Louis’ skin burns through the layers of cloth, Harry’s fingers and the palm of his hand leaving behind a trail of fire. Louis clenches his jaw and steels himself.

“Why would I talk to you Harry? I hardly even know you.” _But_ _despite_ _my  better judgment I really really want to_. His brain silently and unhelpfully finishes the sentence for him, showing itself to be a traitor. It’s been like this since they first met and Louis is tired. He wants to stalk away, he want’s to be glued to Harry’s side. It’s been going like this for days now, this dichotomy. While they were staking out Elliot Elsner’s apartment they’d stuck to talk of the case, to murder and death but Louis constantly finds himself more and more just wanting to talk to Harry about Harry, wanting to know him and all the corners of his sharp mind. Louis also finds himself wanting to run away. It’s maddening.

“Fair,” Harry concedes. “But you can … know me, if you want to.”

_I want to_. Louis scoffs and resumes walking. “In life it’s best to keep yourself to yourself. If you haven’t learned that by now Styles then you may be beyond saving.”

Harry smirks a little. Louis sees it from the corner of his vision. No matter how hard he tries he’s always aware of Harry, aware of every little movement and tick.

“How about I just ask where we’re off to now. You’ve clearly got a destination in mind.”

“Yea there’s a diner I know nearby. I’m starving.” As soon as the words are out Louis swears he hears Harry’s stomach rumble. Or maybe it’s his own. He can’t remember his last solid meal. Things like proper sustenance always tend to fall by the way side when there are more pressing matters occupying his mind. But he needs the fuel and he can tell Harry does too.

“You look like you could use a good meal.” Louis looks Harry up and down as he says it, eyes narrowed and a smirk on his lips.

“Hey.” Harry draws out the word as he tries to hide the faint blush creeping into his cheeks. Still, he hesitates.

“Come on, the food is greasy and cheap and the coffee can burn a hole right through you.”

Louis’ not sure why he’s pressing this but he is. Harry sways a little on his fight clearly battling and Louis cannot account for why. Maybe Harry’s had enough of his company for the day.

“Lead the way,” Harry says eventually, gesturing for Louis to do so with a sweep of his arm.

They turn their collars up against the chill as they make their way down an alley to another street. The diner is a few blocks away and they’re silent the whole way there. It’s not uncomfortable or awkward Louis notes, it’s just there hanging between them in almost familiar sort of way. Louis’ used to his own company, used to the quiet, of nights spent alone working through some case or another but this is nice too. Harry’s long strides and the swish of his coat are an almost soothing rhythm.

As they approach the diner, it seems to Louis as if another layer of grime has settled over the once slick, sliver polished exterior since he’d last been. _ay’s Dine_ it says in stuttering red light the _R’s_ dormant. Harry quirks an eyebrow that Louis thinks is meant for him as he regards it. There’s a group of young men hanging around outside on the pavement smoking and shoving at each other. They don’t spare Louis or Harry a glance as they push their way inside.

On the other side of the doors nobody pays them any mind either. As he surveys the room Louis wonders if anyone in this city ever sees anything at all. No one makes eye contact as they make their way down the one aisle of the place between the long bar and the row of booths lined against the windows. Half the space is filled with tired looking patrons being served by weary workers.

The space isn’t bright, cheery or welcoming. It’s worn with dimly lit corners and sticky floors. Louis finds comfort in that and they tuck themselves into a corner booth at the back. The old red upholstery creaks when Louis sits. It’s split in some places, stuffing peeking out and he picks at an exposed edge as he Harry takes the seat opposite. Harry’s nodding his head to the scratchy rock and roll music leeching from the beat up jukebox in the corner. The shit quality of the sound makes it more like wailing to Louis than music but it seems fitting and he doesn’t mind it.

An older woman in a red and white uniform comes to their table and offers menus, holding out a pot of coffee in a silent question. Louis nods his head and gets a cup full of steaming sludge. Harry seems slightly alarmed by the thickness of it and Louis has to bury a smile behind a cough. When she asks if they want glasses of water they both decline quickly and definitively. The water in this city tends to taste like it could cut metal. Coffee, tea, alcohol, anything to burn it away and disguise the heavy taste and feel of it.

When she shuffles away. Harry picks up his menu and his eyes flick over it, darting quickly, absorbed in its contents. Louis watches him watch it, already knowing that he wants the biggest burger they have.

“See anything you like?” Louis asks. He wants to hear Harry’s voice.

Harry’s eyes dart up looking at Louis from behind the plastic laminated menu. “Roast maybe … or the burger.”

Louis gives an approving thumbs up at the latter and Harry settles on it. They order a basket of fries to share and Harry gets a coke. Louis just sticks to the coffee even though Harry makes a face at him for that.

While their food is being prepared Louis rest his elbow on the table, seats his chin in his hand and watches evening descend outside the greasy smudged windows. Workers are still heading home, briefcases held tight and heads down against the wind. Traffic backs up in the rush and horns honk occasionally with resigned irritation. He watches Harry too, from the corner of his vision he sees every shuffle and every time his eyes dart to Louis’ face and then away again. Louis sees the way that Harry flexes his fingers every now and then as he wrings them together. He sees the way Harry plays with that ring on his index finger spinning it around and around not seemingly conscious that he’s even doing it. Louis finds that he wants to ask about it but he doesn’t. He’s afraid he may have to reciprocate if Harry does offer up answers and Louis’ not sure he wants to. He’s not sure he wants to bare any part of himself to Harry. He thinks that if he starts he may never stop and Harry will end up buried under a mountain of Louis’ confessions and he can’t see anyone wanting that.

Louis’ stomach rolls with hunger and other feelings that he can’t quite identify and he’s grateful when their food arrives. The scent of it wafts up to him and Louis’ mouth waters. He bites into his burger, closing his eyes for a bit to savour the taste of it. Mouth full he opens his eyes and watches as Harry munches on fries stuffing them by the threes into his mouth. He looks a little rapturous to Louis, looks like he’s pacing himself, like if he was alone he may have scarfed the whole basket of them down in one go. Harry’s enthusiasm pleases Louis, makes him feel as if he did the right thing by insisting Harry join him. He’s a little warm inside if he’s being honest with himself.

Half of Harry’s burger is gone before he takes a break to sip at his drink, fizzy bubbles rise to the top as he pulls from the straw. Drops of moisture roll down the glass in little rivulets, pooling on the tabletop. Louis hears the ice cubes clinking together. He watches as Harry grips the glass and gets his fingers wet, sliding them through the condensation and Louis wonders briefly what it would be like to suck on them.

“So that didn’t really turn up anything.” 

Harry’s spoken and it takes Louis a minute to bring himself up to speed on the words that had spilled from his lips. He blinks in confusion, focus shot and Harry repeats himself, clearly thinking he hadn’t been heard the first time around. Louis’ hadn’t really but he does this time and with it he hears the disappointment in Harry’s voice.

Louis clears his throat. “I wouldn’t says so.”

“Why not?” Harry perks up at Louis’ response, the last bit of his dinner poised midway to his mouth.

“You noticed his place was nice right--” Harry nods his head in agreement.  “--well it wasn’t nice enough to afford a private security detail for Martin.”

Louis gives Harry a moment to turn his words over in his mind. “So what does that mean?”

“It means we’re missing something. We need to find this Elsner guy.”

“Ideas?” Harry asks just before he sucks at that damn straw. Louis clears his throat again, turning his head slightly to get away from the full effect of Harry’s tongue darting out to capture the straw before his lips close around it, from the way his throat bobs as he swallows.

“Uhm I-- we should check out Full Stop’s studios tomorrow. His boss might know something.”

“Good thinking.” Harry pushes his empty glass away from him and Louis finally feels safe enough to look at him head on.

The waitress comes back, coffee pot in hand and this time Harry accepts. Louis gets a refill and they sit back in the booth and sip at the sludge. Louis takes his time with it and Harry does too. Louis’ trying to prolong their moment here and he wonders if Harry is doing the same. He’d seemed reluctant to accept Louis’ invitation but now he looks in no hurry to leave.

Their conversation is sporadic, a periodic exchange of words against the backdrop of diner chatter. They talk of their experiences, Louis of his more interesting cases, Harry of his most gruesome crime scenes and all around them patrons enter and leave, voices rise and fall, barstools scrape over chipped tiles and that rock and roll wails on.

At some point a slow drizzle picks up outside leaving their window covered in little misty droplets of water. They stay until the sun has set fully and night has crowded in heavy and resolute. Street lamps glow sickly yellow and for every working one there’s at least two in need of repair. Louis notices this because he uses the view as his refuge for when looking at Harry gets to be too much. He escapes to the visage of his fucked up city instead. He may hate this place but he knows this place and there’s safety in knowing.

Two cups of coffee later and neither one of them have anymore excuses to linger. He’s got enough caffeine in him to keep him up until sunrise and the sheer harshness of it is making his stomach burn. The diner had filled out then thinned again while they’d been here, this crowd looking even worse for wear than the last. Louis insists on paying for Harry’s meal and he protests but it almost seems only to be on principle. Harry doesn’t put up that much of a fight and he doesn’t pout nearly as much or as hard as Louis thought he would’ve. If anything he seems slightly bashful, shuffling his feet against the sticky marked up tiles as Louis waits for change.

Back out on the streets, the night air settles around them thick with unshed precipitation. It’s as if the city wants to unleash but instead holds itself at bay with only the freezing drizzle to show for its fury. It’s not long before they’re covered in it as they wait for a cab to share. The droplets are so small that they don’t run as they land and Louis finds himself affected by how they cling to each strand of Harry’s hair, forming around each lick and curl. In the glow of an old street lamp it makes him look like he has a halo.

Louis feels a nervousness in his gut, a twisting, and he wants to blame the coffee, the greasy food, wants to blame something other than the man beside him. When Harry closes his eyes and tilts his head upward, breathing in the night air, Louis’ insides tilt with him. Louis’ jittery and he doesn’t like it. He has to get a hold of himself and quick. This is turning into something it was never meant to be.

He holds his hand out, waving it about in a desperate attempt to hail a ride. The nervous fluttering in his chest is turning into a searing irritation and he needs to get away, needs to be on his own. A beat up cab finally stops and Louis sweeps into it pulling his trench coat around him, wrapping himself up like armour. He sticks as close to the opposite passenger door as he can leaving a clear space between him and Harry. Harry follows him in and as the driver pulls away from the curb Louis can see that Harry’s unsettled. It’s in his fingers, the way he’s flexing them and twisting them together. His leg is bouncing too and he keeps throwing surreptitious glances towards Louis. But Louis notices and he knows it’s because he’s become suddenly withdrawn. The silence this time isn’t an easy one, it’s awkward.

Harry only speaks to tell the driver where to go and Louis frowns when he hears the address. He chances a glance and finds the planes of Harry’s face hard. His jaw is set, his teeth are clenched. He’s a statue, carved in the finest marble except he’s not because those hands of his will not stay still. Louis sighs, deep and audible and turns his face towards the night. As soon as he does he can feel the heat of Harry’s gaze again. It’s like a wandering spotlight sweeping back and forth and every time he’s illuminated by it Louis burns. He runs a hand through his hair and fidgets in his seat aflame with the intensity of those green eyes that he can’t look into.

He almost breathes a sigh of relief when he realises that they’re approaching Harry’s neighbourhood until he remembers where they are. Louis feels their location before he sees the actual signs of it. It’s like something that just settles in the bones, carving out the marrow and replacing it entirely. Louis lives in a rough part of town but it’s nothing like this. The desperation  here isn’t held behind chipped paint and greying walls. It isn’t hidden by dirty streets and grimy windows. Here it spills out, rolls over the pavement and echoes in the pot holes the cabbie keeps falling into. It’s clear that the rubbish hasn’t been collected in ages. Bins are overturned and he sees more than one of them have been set alight with people gathered around stealing some warmth in the cold night.

It’s unnaturally dark on Harry’s street, the buildings crowd in here, packed tight, alleys so narrow Louis would have to walk sideways to pass through them. Adding to the oppressive nature of it, most of the street lamps are  shattered, standing uselessly aside as cigarette tips glow in the dark lighting stoops and faces from where people hang out, preferring the cold drizzle to whatever’s inside. Louis can’t remember the last time he’d come here, can’t think of anything that would draw him.

He turns to look at Harry but Harry doesn’t bat an eye at any of it. If anything, he looks resigned. Louis would think he’s just used to it if it wasn’t for those hands of his still twisting around each other pulling at his ring. The driver stops and Harry pays quickly, handing it over as the cabbie looks about him nervously. Louis wants to comment, wants to say something but Harry’s opening the door before he can think of what to say and as soon as it’s shut the driver speeds off, clearly enthusiastic about leaving Harry’s neighbourhood behind.


	4. Fog And Steel

Louis stands at the top of the concrete steps shifting from foot to foot. The afternoon is dim, the sky a heavy, grey layer above him. Sunlight struggles to filter through the solid mass of clouds that make the rays work for every bit of illumination they manage to provide.

He flicks the cigarette he’s been smoking to the ground, grinding the stub of it under his heel. He’s been standing here outside Full Stop Pictures’ main office for about fifteen minutes and he’s annoyed. He hardly slept at all, fuelled by the three cups of coffee he’d consumed last night and his restless mind. He’s agitated and Harry’s late. At the diner they’d decided their next course of action would be to pay Elsner’s place of employment a visit. Louis had stated an exact time for Harry to meet him and now he’s standing outside contemplating the melancholy sky on his own. There’s a part of him saying to let it go it hasn’t been that long but another part of him wants to hold on to it, wants to let his frustration build. He’s supposed to be doing this alone, he isn’t supposed to be waiting on anyone at all.

Louis shifts again and takes a deep breath. The air is misty and the movie district looks anything but glamorous through the haze. _Where the fuck is he?_ There’s another bit of Louis that’s letting worry start to creep in and this part of him probably bothers him the most. He doesn’t have time for this, he hadn’t asked for this.

Louis grinds his teeth as he sees a black trench coat materialise through the thin fog that’s beginning to gather. Harry’s jogging up the steps taking them two at a time, his green eyes apologetic. Harry’s coat is open, his hands stuck into his trouser’s pockets and it flaps in his wake, dramatic and befitting their location. He tries to speak when he gets to the top but Louis just turns around and pushes through the main doors of the building. Harry follows him through wordlessly.

After Louis makes an enquiry at the front desk they’re directed to an office. The shouting from inside is enough of a map to guide their way. Faux gold lettering on the door identifies the voice as Nicholas Grimshaw’s.

“I AM SURROUNDED BY INCOMPETENT FOOLS!”

“Mr. Grimshaw--”

“I said a horse! I need a fucking horse and these poor excuses for humans bring a pony to the lot!

“Surely we can make do--”

“Get the fuck out! Get out of my sight and do not come back until there is a fucking _stallion_ at Lot B!”

“Ye--yes sir.”

Louis and Harry stand just outside the doorway as a young woman comes rushing through, hiding her face in her hands and ignoring their presence completely.  They make their way into the large but cluttered office just as Grimshaw pounds a fist onto his desk sending papers and knickknacks flying over the edge. Louis glances at Harry and sees an amused spark in his eyes. Louis’ lips tug upward briefly without his permission and he stamps down on it quickly.

Grimshaw regards them both from beneath bushy eyebrows and through squinting eyes. “Unless you’re here to tell me you’ve found me a horse, get the fuck out!”

Harry’s eyes widen briefly and he looks to Louis clearly wondering what the game plan is going to be. Grimshaw doesn’t seem the cooperative type, at least not at the moment. Louis returns Harry’s look with a smug one of his own. One that clearly says, _watch and learn._

Louis clears his throat and steps forward. “Mr. Grimshaw, my name is Lewis Thompson with Shadow Debt Collectors. This is my associate Herschel.” Louis waves worst for wear but legitimate looking identification in front of a red faced, fuming Grimshaw before gesturing towards Harry who’s caught on and is doing his part to look dodgy and intimidating. If not for the eyes then he wouldn’t be very convincing.

“What the fuck do you want?”

The thin reed of a man has more frown lines than should be possible. It looks like being a studio executive is more trouble than it’s worth judging by some of the content that makes its way out of this particular one. Louis’ just about to open his mouth when the phone next to Grimshaw begins to ring. It makes a shrill sound, piercing the stuffy air of the room and causing Harry to visibly startle. They both watch in surprised silence as Grimshaw grabs the entire thing from his desk and throws it against the far wall. It takes an effort not to flinch from the crunching sound of the impact.

After a few beats Louis clears his throat, cutting through the awkward silence that’s descended around them. Grimshaw is clearly having a bad day. As far as Louis’ concerned Grimshaw will have to get in line. Louis’ been in the throws of bad days for years.

“I’m looking for a Mr. James Elsner--” Louis keeps his voice even, businesslike. “--It’s a money issue obviously.” He waves his ID one more time before pocketing it.

If Louis thought Grimshaw’s face was red before it’s really nothing compared to the startling hue it’s now taken on. It’s truly something to behold and he feels Harry subtly nudge him with his elbow, eyes dancing when Louis briefly looks into them. Louis is genuinely wondering if the guy will have a heart attack right here and just how much more trouble they will have on their hands if he does.

Grimshaw stands from his desk, hands shaking wildly as he plants them on the wooden surface. “You’re looking for that piece of shit too huh? Well if you find him you let me know.” He looks between Louis and Harry before adding, “Let me know if you need someone to break his legs when you do. I know a guy.”

Harry looks taken aback by Grimshaw’s words and Louis doesn’t blame him. Why is everyone in this city so quick with the violence? Louis knows that this Grimshaw character really means it. He probably does know a guy. Hell, Louis knows a guy. Harry is probably the only one in the room who doesn’t.

“That-- that won’t be necessary. Thank you for your time,” Harrys says, words rushed.

Grimshaw grunts, running a hand through his dark brown, greasy, slicked back hair. His wrists are tiny, weighed down by a huge gold watch. With his crumpled suit and sallow complexion he doesn’t seem all that intimidating, not when you look past the booming voice and excessive profanity. He looks to be at about his wits end. One more person this city is slowly taking apart.

He sits heavily in his chair, the wood creaks even with his slight weight. He puts his head in his hands and sighs. “I’m just trying to make a movie. My job is on the line here. First the lead actor is murdered and now the scriptwriter has run off. All I know is if I don’t deliver I’m finished.”

Louis nor Harry say anything at all as they quietly leave Grimshaw’s office. Louis doubts Grimshaw even notices them leave. They pass by the desk of the young woman who’d fled from Grimshaw’s presence. She’s touching up the makeup her crying has ruined. She stares intently into a compact mirror, her face saying, _anywhere but here_. Louis has seen that look too many times reflected back to him from his own mirror to not recognise it for what it is. He tries to meet her eye, to perhaps offer in some way reassurance that he know he doesn’t really have. She must know it too because her eyes stay fixed, avoiding him and Harry both as they make their way out.

Free from the stuffy air of the office and back on the streets the disappointment of another dead end settles heavily on Louis’ chest. It’s all catching up to him. He’s been doing his best but he’s got nothing to show for it. He runs his hands through his hair, vexation biting at him and just about resists the urge to growl or maybe even to scream.

“Well, that was … something,” Harry says turning to look at Louis. He’s doing his best impression of Grimshaw, contorting his face and waving his hands about. Harry’s trying to make him laugh and it’s a near thing. Harry’s being so ridiculous and Louis feels the amusement bubbling to the surface. He feels it breaking though his disappointment and his frustration and his tumultuous thoughts. It makes him angry. The spark of it flares in his gut. How can Harry be laughing when they’ve just hit another wall? How can Louis want to laugh with him?

“You think this shit is funny Styles?” Louis grinds the words out.

“The general situation? No of course not. That guy back there? Yes. An odd combination of funny and sad,” Harry says, sobering.

Louis want’s to agree but instead he clenches his jaw even more. “I’m glad this is a game to you.”

Harry sighs, soft but Louis hears it. “It’s not a game to me Louis you know this.” He reaches a hand out and connects with Louis shoulder and it feels like lightning.

Louis wrenches away from his touch. “Get a cab, I’m going to walk.”

Harry’s brow furrows, displaying his confusion. “What? Why? Your place is even further away than mine.”

“I’m not going home just yet.” Louis avoids Harry’s eyes as he says the words. He’s being petulant, he knows.

“Where are you going?” Harry nudges Louis’ arm, bumping them together as he looks at Louis sideways.

That little touch is too much for Louis to take in his fragile state. He rounds on Harry, eyes flashing. “Honestly Styles can you leave me the fuck alone!?”

There’s a beat of silence and then, “Fine!”

Harry raises his voice and throws his hands up in the first real sign of annoyance Louis has seen from him since they’ve met. Louis steels himself and acts unaffected. He didn’t ask for any of this. He didn’t ask for Martin to die and he sure as hell didn’t ask for Harry to insert himself into his investigation. What the fuck was Harry’s deal anyway.

Without another word Harry turns on his heel and makes his way up the street. Louis watches as Harry’s tall frame is almost enveloped by the growing fog. He watches as Harry stretches a long arm out, doing his best to hail a cab. His first effort gets him splashed with filthy street water and Harry looks wounded for a second before rallying himself to try again. Louis almost goes to him to smooth things over but he stops. He stays rooted to his spot on the dirty pavement. He doesn’t need Harry and his easy smiles sidetracking him. Looking into Martin’s death was something Louis’ supposed to be doing on his own. He doesn’t want or need a partner.

A beat up cab finally takes pity on Harry and stops to let him in. Louis knows that Harry’s aware of him watching but he doesn’t spare Louis a glance. The cab sweeps him away and Louis is left feeling a bit sorry for himself. He shrugs it away. This is the way it’s supposed to be.

He’d lied to Harry. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go but home. It’s silly of him but he’d planned to hail a ride of his own after he’d gotten rid of Harry. But now, he really does feel the urge to walk. Louis has a long walk ahead of him but he needs the time to think. He needs to clear his head, there’s too much banging around in there and Louis needs it to stop. His past, his present they’re melding into one and he doesn’t need any more complications.

Louis decides to stick to the alleys behind the studios. As he walks he runs his fingers along old brick walls, feeling the grit and roughness of the stone, the history embedded in each brick. It’s quiet back here, older, the ground covered in cobblestone instead of concrete. The earlier fog is settling more heavily over everything as afternoon begins to dwindle into evening. The white tendrils of it coil around Louis in a seductive dance, curling up his arms and twisting around his legs. Instead of lightening his mood and clearing his head, the quiet, surreal nature of these alleys are making him feel heavy. Time feels sluggish back here as he makes his way through the maze of paths.

Louis meanders down each narrow pathway, taking lazy turns, not truly paying attention to where they are taking him. It’s quiet, almost dreamlike back here and he feels wistful, a vague nostalgia tugging at his insides. Louis tries to anchor it down, tries to determine what it is that he’s missing but answers elude him, slipping away into the surrounding mist. The only concrete thing that his mind seems to hold on to are thoughts of Harry. They solidify no matter how hard he tries to fight it. Harry would like it back here with the damaged old camera equipment discarded out on balconies and near dumpsters. Louis wouldn’t be surprised if Harry knew what each piece was and what it did. It seemed like something he would know. Harry would find beauty in these broken relics. Louis wonders if Harry finds any beauty in him.

Louis shakes his head, aggravated. These are the kinds of useless thoughts that keep pervading his mind and it’s driving him mad. Harry has no right to do this. He has no right to show up at Louis’ door and walk into his life without a word. Louis has no right to want him there. It’s risky and it’s reckless. He hardly knows Harry. With each passing day, Louis’ sark, his harshness, has melted away under Harry’s persistence. They are his defence mechanisms, they are his armour and Harry’s effortlessly taking them apart with alarming speed. Louis doesn’t want to be sharp with Harry the way he is with so much of the world, he doesn’t want to be disparaging, he wants to be the person he used to be. He wants to divest of his armour and that is more dangerous than any case he’s ever found himself on.

Even today when he’s pushed Harry away, he knows that Harry isn’t gone for good. Louis knows that Harry will be back with his good nature and enigmatic eyes, ready for whatever Louis decides they need to do next. More than that, if for some reason Harry doesn’t come back on his own, Louis will go after him and bring Harry back himself.

This realisation is the hardest for Louis to take. Harry is under his skin in a way that Louis has secretly craved for years. Louis is drawn to him in a way that he’s never been drawn to anyone before. Not even Martin. Harry’s handsome, he’s funny, he has gold around his edges that the world hasn’t gotten at yet. For Louis, Harry’s turning what’s supposed to be a cold, hard journey into something very different. It’s been infused with bouts of laughter and bad coffee, shared whiskey and absent touches.

In some ways Louis feels guilty. Every time he laughs at one of Harry’s terrible jokes, every time he thinks about what it would be like to touch him in the casual way that Harry always seems to be able to, Louis thinks, _if Martin hadn’t died, then I wouldn’t have this._ It’s the truth of it that stings, that makes Louis feels as if he doesn’t deserve whatever happiness he’s managing to find in Harry’s presence. The memories of his time with Martin are still swirling heavy through his heart and mind but Harry has single handedly penetrated that fog. He isn’t even the good thing waiting at the end. Harry is the good thing going through it with him. Why?

Louis doesn’t _need_ Harry to find Martin’s killer. If he did then this would all be easier to take. Louis _wants_ Harry to help him. He wants Harry around, wants his voice and his deep laugh and his expressive hands and that damned black trench coat. From that first meeting to every late night they’d spent in each other’s company since, Louis has gotten a glimpse into a life he hadn’t thought possible.

He knows that he has Harry’s trust, knows that Harry would call them friends. Harry looks up to him, always impressed by his skills and quick observations. Louis finds himself wanting to impress, silently preening whenever he does.  But is that all there is? These things that he’s feeling he isn’t even sure if he should feel them. Maybe Harry has a lady friend. Does he prefer the company of men? Both? Neither?

Louis runs a hand through his hair and at this point his carefully constructed quiff is quickly coming undone. Usually on a case his focus is intense and single minded and this one is personal which should create tunnel vision, its resolution the only thing that matters. But now, now his concentration is scattered. Interspersed with the sparse clues and whispers of memories are green eyes and brown curls and full lips. There’s something that feels like longing, a little like hope and a lot like distraction.

That distraction is probably why Louis doesn’t feel eyes watching him. it’s probably why he almost ends up with a knife in his gut.

A scrabbling noise brings Louis up short. He halts his footsteps and tilts his head to listen. Gooseflesh rises on his skin and his flight or fight instincts kick in just before a swipe of sharp metal cuts the air. Louis twists his body just enough - barely an inch - for the knife to miss flesh. He hears the ripping of fabric as the blade slices through his coat with hardly any resistance. His trench coat for fucks sake.

In one swift, graceful movement Louis gets low and turns. He’s barely escaped being maimed and he isn’t okay with giving his assailant another chance. His blue eyes scan the fog, staring hard into the white mist. Whoever it is has disappeared. Or at least seems to. Louis’ chest rises and falls as the adrenaline crashes through him, rolling in his veins and setting his body on fire. Visibility is too low, staring into the mist isn’t helping. Louis closes his eyes, steadying his breath and he feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

That’s when he hears it.

A quiet scraping of a shoe against cobblestone. A rustle of fabric, a shuffle of feet. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, vision white, the murky haze almost impenetrable. His attacker is an opportunist, using the mist as their cover and Louis knows he won’t get another chance.

Suddenly, a man comes directly at Louis, the fog falling away around his body making it seem as if he’s appeared out of thin air. The blade of the knife in his hand glints in the weak light, poised high and ready to strike. He moves quickly but Louis is faster, ready. The man falters and that bit of hesitation is all Louis needs. Using his lithe frame to his advantage, Louis waits until the last possible moment to manoeuvre out of the way and use his attacker’s momentum against him.

Louis grabs the man’s arm and gets behind him, twisting it painfully tight and unnaturally high against his attacker’s back. There’s the sharp sound of metal meeting stone as the knife falls and spins away into the fog. The man struggles in Louis’ grip but he’s clearly underestimated how strong Louis is. It’s a mistake often made. Louis wrenches the captured arm up, twisting it even further and the assailant stops his struggle around a pained yelp, he stills, defeated.

He’s broad shouldered but thin, slicked back hair and pale skin. He resembles a reptile both in appearance and reputation and with a swift kick, Louis takes his legs out from under him. He falls to his knees hard on the stone, another grunt of pain escaping through gritted teeth.

As Louis holds him captive and contemplates his next move he finds rage building up inside him, every single ounce of it since he’d gotten that call that Martin was dead. The anger starts to boil his blood, the anger that has been simmering inside him for years, pulsing though him for so long that he’s forgotten what he’s even mad about. He knows he can do it. Twist some more, put pressure right there and hear the satisfying crack of bone inside flesh. Whoever the fuck this person is absolutely deserves it. He’d tried to kill Louis. He’d tried to take Louis out before he was damned well good and ready to be gone. Red flashes over the cold blue of Louis’ irises, his hand twitches and then he surrenders the urge.

Exhaling sharply and shaking his head to clear it, Louis asks his unwanted companion about the whereabouts of James Elsner. He figures it must be connected. There’s something bigger at play here and Louis needs to know what that is. There’s a job to be done, the whole reason he’s out here on these streets, the reason this piece of shit was following him and Harry both probably since they’d searched Elsner’s place.

Louis expects to hear words, whether truths or falsehoods. What he gets is a bright burst of pain. It makes him gasp and fall back, his knees colliding mercilessly with hard stone. As soon as he does a metal tipped boot connects forcefully in the same spot missing the hand he’d curled around himself by a hair. He’d let his attention wander, no matter how briefly. He’d underestimated his attacker, unconsciously loosening his grip and he’d paid the price. As Louis clutches his side and coughs painfully, - forehead pressed to the cold cobblestone - he’s grateful he’d already forced the man to drop his knife or else he would be in worse condition. As it is, the well placed blows has him gasping for breath and gives the reptile enough time to slip away again into the fog.

Louis slams a hand onto the slick stone, angry with himself for letting the man slip through his fingers. Their best lead is gone because he’d made a mistake. Louis’ overcome with a painful coughing fit as he fights to bring air back into his lungs. Every breath hurts like a stab to his side and he curls up, falling sideways to the ground. Louis rolls a little as he feels nausea sweep through him. He fights it down, trying to catch his breath as the last of the afternoon light gives up its struggle. Louis’ fingers scrabble along the damp cobblestone as he breathes through the pain, huffing breaths that are swallowed up by the heavy fog.


	5. Rye Whiskey Dinner

Walking the three flights of stairs up to Harry’s room is the least fun Louis’ had in months. He’s made the rash decision to come here after walking hunched over through the city for longer than he’d thought himself capable of. Louis had stumbled along through filthy streets using street lamps, the corners of buildings, anything, to hold some of his weight. He’d struggled but pressed on, no passersby sparing him even a glance. He may as well have been invisible. Louis hadn’t expected any different. People here keep their heads down, stick to their own business, their own problems. 

Night had gathered, cloaking him as he’d pushed along. The fucker who attacked him had taken his wallet as a final fuck you before making his escape. With it went his chance of falling into a cab for a bumpy ride home and the bottle of whiskey sitting almost empty on his desk.

Harry’s place is closer than his, at least that’s what he’d told himself as he took the detour into his neighbourhood. He just couldn’t make himself walk past it. In his defence, it hurt. Dammit it hurt a lot. The stairs are making him rethink his decision though. They’re steeper and more narrow than they have any right to be and the handrail is attached to wall with only a wish and a prayer. The walls are paper thin, yellow with strips of wallpaper hanging off them and as he makes his way up he’s privy to evening fights, loud, very questionable music and … other sounds that he really has no interest in thinking about.

When he gets to Harry’s door he really doesn’t even have the strength to knock. Instead, Louis leans forward and lets his forehead thump against the dusty wood. When that doesn’t work, he raises one arm, leaving the other to cradle against himself and bangs on the door with the palm of his hand.

Harry pulls the door open and Louis almost falls through the open doorway and right to the floor of Harry’s small room. Only large, steady hands keep him upright as he slumps into an awkward embrace.

At first Harry’s eyes had been wide with surprise but now they’re filled with concern and worry as Louis attempts to regain his footing and disentangle himself from Harry. Louis doesn’t even think to be embarrassed. He’s too relieved.

“Louis … are you okay? What’s wrong? What happened?”

The questions are coming rapid fire and Louis chooses to start with the first. “Define okay,” he says as he lets Harry guide him towards his bed. Louis sits gingerly on the edge of the creaking mattress, his side smarting with every moment and twitch of his muscles.

“What happened?” Harry repeats. He’s moments away from wringing his hands and fretting.

Louis breaths and lets Harry’s concern wash over him. It’s an unusual sensation, one he’s not very used to and he finds that he’s comforted by it. This beats going home to his empty place where there’s no one to care about what state he’s in. He almost finds himself wanting to be coddled. Almost. Instead he retains his dignity and tells Harry what happened in the back alleys of the movie district.

“That fucker had been following us since Elsner’s place, that’s probably what you sensed. Fuck, who knows he could’ve been following us for days, from the very beginning.” Louis gestures with his free arm to show his irritation while he keeps the other secured loosely around himself.

Harry’s pacing, his brow knitted as he listens to Louis’ story. “Why were you in the back alleys?” He asks. He stops in front of Louis, troubling his lip with his slender fingers as he speaks.

Louis keeps his eyes glued to them as he says, “Because I’m a dick and I was rude to you.”

Harry’s eyes squint and he pouts his lips, focusing his gaze on Louis’ face. “Louis--”

“No I was. I’m sorry about that.” Louis interrupts him because he doesn’t want Harry to make excuses. He doesn’t want him to be self deprecating. Louis apologises because he needs to, because he wants to. It’s warranted.

Louis smiles a small smile, a touch rueful. He can’t remember the last time he’d apologised to anyone, can’t remember the last time there was anyone around to apologise to. He means it. No matter what’s going on in his head, no matter how he’s feeling, there’s no excuse to be rude to Harry when he’s done nothing but look up to Louis and give himself completely over to helping him solve Martin’s murder on his own time from the very beginning.

It’s so much so soon for Louis and he still isn’t used to looking over and seeing someone walking beside him, or sitting across from him, or hanging on his every word. He doesn’t know what to do with it but knows that he doesn’t want it to stop.

Harry’s eyes are large, bright and softer than Louis’ ever seen them. Harry’s shining and Louis wishes Harry would sit so he won’t have to crane his neck to look at him anymore, so that he can admire him properly. Louis’ about to tell him to stop hovering when the look in Harry’s eyes morph. There’s a look on his face now that Louis can’t place. He can’t place it but he knows he doesn’t like it. Louis feels unease creep into his gut as Harry shifts in place and casts his eyes downwards to his uneven floorboards.

“There’s something … there’s something I need to tell you,” Harry says, slow and halting, dragging the words as if he’d rather not have to say them at all.

Louis’ immediately on high alert. Never in his life has he heard those words and something good right after. It’s always something he doesn't want to hear, something he doesn’t want to know. He looks at Harry, guarded. His defences are already warming his blood in an unpleasant way.

“It’s about this case,” Harry says as he slumps into the wooden chair tucked into one corner of the room across from Louis. “Jones has been running this wrong from the beginning. He didn’t even want me on it because he knew I’d see through him right away.”

So far Harry isn’t saying anything that Louis doesn’t already know. Louis breathes in and out and waits.

“At the crime scene there was something about you that piqued my interest. I  tried to play it off but for the whole time you were there I was paying more attention to you than anything else. I-- I could see the minute Jones told you to stay out of it that you weren’t going to.” And there goes the hands. Harry’s twisting them, pulling on that damn ring again. Louis’ blood thrums in his ears.

“As soon as you left, Jones called me aside and … ordered me to follow you, keep tabs and report back to him every single move you made. He told me to keep my distance, to be discreet … I--”

“What the fuck!?” Louis shouts the words, the sound reverberates around the small, mostly barren, space. His words carry through the walls and echo back to him but he doesn’t care.

Louis feels whiplashed, his emotions ricocheting in wild extremes. The nausea is back and he wants to hit something. He knew, he fucking _knew,_ that he couldn’t trust Harry. Had known it since Harry walked into his office. Except that isn’t necessarily true. He’d fallen so easy into Harry’s orbit, easier than he ever had before. But he should’ve known better. People don’t come around him without a hidden agenda.

Louis leans forward, willing his stomach to settle. He feels sore and battered and he wants to go home, to be away from here. He’d gotten so distracted by Harry that he hadn’t seen someone lurking in the shadows waiting to strike. He’d been so caught up in what he’s feeling that he’d missed who Harry really is. He’d been so blind, so quick to trust. He’s losing his instincts, losing himself.

“How the fuck could you do this?” How could you lie to me? I should’ve never trusted you. I knew not to trust you and I did it anyway, I just let you walk into my office and I-- I-- you…” Louis doesn’t know what he wants to say but he certainly doesn’t want it coming out this way.

He doesn’t like the whiny tone to his voice, the way he’s sounding like something to be pitied, the way he sounds like he’s lamenting over betrayal. Louis’ stronger than this, his words are stronger than this, his fists are stronger than this. All he can do is curl them, hold them against himself pressing in to his flesh, to his injury, until the pain blooms even fiercer than before. His eyes sting and he gasps through it, fighting to control himself. When had this happened? When had someone else’s words brought a lump to his throat instead of searing anger? When was the last time Louis Tomlinson wanted to cry?

Who’s he even kidding? He didn’t come to Harry’s room because it was closer. He’d come because he’d wanted to see Harry. He’s hurt and he wanted nothing more than to have Harry there. He’d wanted to say sorry to Harry for how he’d treated him earlier, to tell him all about the attack and complain about his ruined trench coat. At some point Harry had come to mean something to Louis, something important and to think that none of it had been real is too much. Louis finally let someone in and it’s nothing but an illusion.

“… Louis, Louis,” Harry’s been talking, saying his name over and over, trying to get his attention. It comes to him through a haze and he looks up to meet Harry’s too green eyes staring into him. Louis wants to curse at him but all he can do is sit there in pain, smaller than he’s ever felt.

“I said I didn’t-- I couldn’t.” Harry’s voice is pleading, begging him to understand and Louis feels the pull of it, that easy acquiescing but he resists.

“You think you get points for not being as discreet as you were ordered to be? Should I be flattered?” Louis spits the words at the ground, jaw set, steel exterior sliding back into place.

“God Louis no --” Harry reaches out with his hands but snatches them back towards himself, “-- please listen.”

Harry looks like he’s about to fall to his knees, he looks about to collapse in front of him and that’s the thing that gets Louis’ attention, that gets the blood to quiet just a little, enough so that he can actually hear the words coming out of Harry’s mouth.

“I couldn’t do it at all.” He ducks his head trying to maintain eye contact with Louis, “ I couldn’t follow the order and not because it was the right thing to do but because it was you.”

Louis looks back, each deep breath aborted prematurely due to the pain each one causes to bloom in his side. “What?”

Now that he’s caught Louis’ attention, Louis can see that Harry’s desperate to keep it. Harry leans forward, right to the edge of his seat and waves his hands about as he speaks. “I was drawn to you like a moth, your intensity, your … I couldn’t do it. I knew the minute I refused it would cost me my job but I did it anyway. I stayed away as long as I could but I ended up going to your office anyway.

“Louis the only time I lied to you was when I introduced myself as city police and I did that-- I-- I lied because I was intimidated and I wanted you to take me seriously. I shouldn’t have done it and I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you but I-- I wanted your respect and well I’m jobless. Soon I won’t even be able to afford this piece of shit room all because there was something about this private detective who I didn’t even know.”

He’s rambling and seems to realise it as he leans back in his chair and and exhales deeply. He pushes the air through his parted lips and averts his eyes, looking off to the side but Louis’ eyes remain fixed. He has no idea what to say.

Harry huffs a decidedly unamused laugh. “Who the fuck knows, if you were someone else I might’ve just followed orders but … you’re not.” Harry’s voice trails off so that his last words are almost impossible to hear but Louis hears them. All the blood has rushed to his head and every sense is hyperactive. He hears Harry’s words, and he hears the way Harry’s socked foot brushes against the floorboards. He hears every swipe of Harry’s hands against his trousers. Louis hears it all.

Harry pulls open the draw of a small desk and pulls out a wrinkled stack of papers. Wordlessly he hands them to Louis. It’s his termination letter, fired for insubordination, and his last pay slip. Louis’ brow furrows when he sees the amount. He hands them back, his nerves raw. Even the rustle of the paper grates against them. Harry tucks them back in the drawer carelessly and then clasps his hands between his thighs waiting for Louis’ response.

Louis shifts his position with care. Harry’s old bed creaks miserably underneath him. He lets all the whirring emotions quiet and his mind go still. The tension in the room starts to seep away into the cracks in the walls and ceiling. Louis edges away from the precipice he’d found himself on. He needs something else to focus on, something less loaded, something concrete. He looks around Harry’s room at the starkness of it. It’s rundown but clean. An old chip wood wardrobe, the hinges askew. The creaky bed, a small desk, a chair and a sole lamp illuminating the space. There aren’t any personal effects, nothing much at all. His mind ticks over, questions forming.

“Who the fuck walks away from a paying job in this city?” is what he settles for, asking Harry the question with a tilt of his head.

Harry laughs, a little too loudly and with a bit more enthusiasm than necessary. His relief is palpable.

“Jones wanted me to tail you and report back to make sure you didn’t get involved and complicate things so he could tie it up in a sloppy bow, call it a robbery and go back to puffing on cigars all day. He’s a lazy shit but he’s not stupid so that got me thinking about the why.”

“Why what?”

“Why call you to the scene in the first place. He didn’t have to do that. How did he even know you knew Martin? I get the sense that you and Jones aren’t exactly friendly. Could’ve let you read about it in the paper like everyone else. He wanted you to see him. He wanted you to get involved. The why of that still eludes me.”

Louis has to admit that he hasn’t given much thought to Jones’ motives beyond him being a royal piece of shit. Had Jones played him? Expertly it seems. Stay out of case practically meant get involved. He never looked to City PD to be stalwart in its quest to protect citizens. Corruption is rife, the department riddled with it. Still, it pays, even if that pay was shitty judging by Harry’s lodging.

“Is that why you live here? because you got fired for all this?”

Harry sighs. “No, this is what you get when you refuse to keep your head down and follow the status quo. I may have been doing the work but that’s no longer what my pay slip said. I stayed because I loved the work and even with the slashed pay it was better than none at all. Jone’s said if I did what he ordered that I’d get my rightful pay reinstated, maybe even a bit on the side.”

And yet he’d given it up. “That’s--”

“Fucked up.” Harry finishes for him. He points to a large crack in the wall beside his chair. “There’s a colony of roaches in there. That’s their escape route I think.” His forehead wrinkles as he says it and Louis makes a face, more than a bit horrified.

“My roaches have roaches Louis,” Harry says. He’s completely serious but there’s a bit of spark in his voice, his eyes going bright again where they’d fallen dull at the beginning of his confession.

“What are you talking about?”

Harry leans forward with a conspiratorial air, “I saw one riding on another one’s back the other night. I swear to god.” He puts his hand over his heart and flops back in his seat.

Louis can’t help it. He wheezes laughter though it hurts so much to do so. “No you did not.”

Harry’s too busy laughing with him to attempt any further convincing. Louis’ laughter continues to bubble without his permission and he groans out a pained “ow” as he doubles over a little. Harry sobers at that, getting up from his chair to ease Louis down on the bed. Louis props himself up as Harry stuffs both of his almost flat, pillows behind his head and his back to make him more comfortable.

“I should get home,” Louis says even as he shifts around to get more comfortable on the scratchy sheets.

“No way, you’re staying right here at least for tonight. Tomorrow we’ll see how you feel.” Harry’s voice is adamant telling Louis there’s no use in arguing. Louis doesn’t feel much like arguing anyway.

“Where will you sleep? With the roaches?” Louis smirks through the grimace the pain has left etched onto his face.

“Fuck off Lou.”

Louis’ face threatens to colour at the nickname spoken with a hint of laughter and an eye roll. Louis turns his face towards the wall to hide. Peeking a glance back, he sees that he needn’t have worried. Harry’s busying himself by his wardrobe rummaging for something.

“I don’t have much by way of food but I’ve got this,” He says from behind the open door before he reappears with a half bottle of amber coloured alcohol. “It’s--” he twists the bottle to squint at the label, “--rye whiskey.” He shrugs as he drags his chair closer to the bed, reclaims his seat and hands the bottle over to Louis.

“The best painkiller there is,” Louis says as he raises the bottle slightly  in mock toast before twisting the cap off and taking a big swig. He makes to hand it over and Harry reaches for it, takes a small sip, and hands it back.

They continue like that until Louis loses track of time and he’s sure Harry lets him have most of the alcohol as they talk away into the night. Harry apologises at least two more times until Louis tells him firmly but gently that he’s forgiven. And he means it. He’s just grateful that he gets to keep this companionship that’s growing between them and he has a new respect for Harry. Harry’s stronger, more set in his beliefs, his ethics than most would be under his circumstances. Objectively Louis would’ve even understood if Harry had chosen to follow orders. But Louis also knows that there really is no objectivity for him where Harry is concerned. Even thinking of the moment when he’d thought Harry had betrayed him causes a phantom pain to blossom in his chest. It had felt like all his air had been stolen from him and he’d been pushed over the edge of a cliff, free falling.

Their conversation is punctuated by yelling and the sounds of things being thrown and broken, by people’s voices wafting up from the street below, the rumble of cars on the uneven concrete and sirens wailing in the distance. Louis lets it all wash over him, pain numbed from the whisky and the company until he finds himself drowsy, head bobbing, struggling to stay awake.

Harry puts the nearly empty bottle on his desk and gets up to riffle through his wardrobe again this time pulling out a few worn blankets.

“I’ll snooze in the chair. I can put my feet up on the end of the bed,” He says as he makes his way back over.

Louis watches on with a dubious expression as Harry makes a show of draping one of the blankets over the rickety chair in order to cushion the hard surface. He keeps stealing glances at Louis as he does so, a small but prominent pout on his lips. Louis arranges his features in an attempt to illustrate to Harry just how unimpressed he is with his display.

Finally, Louis sighs as Harry pats his hands over his blanketed chair, smoothing out the wrinkles in a very exaggerated manner. “You won’t be able to walk in the morning if you sleep like that Styles.”

“Oh thank god. I thought you were really going to let me attempt that.”

“What are you talking about?” Louis feigns ignorance. It’s the least he can do. He has his dignity to protect.

Harry looks at Louis for one long moment. He looks like he’s thinking hard about something and Louis wants to know what. Slowly, a smile creeps over his face and Louis watches the transformation as dimples appear. Louis feels like he can’t breathe and it isn’t because of the formidable bruise forming on his side.

“Just get in the bed for fucks sake,” Louis grumbles.

“Aw Lou, I thought you’d never ask,” Harry says as Louis slowly inches himself over to make a space for Harry to join him.

Louis doesn’t show it but he’s startled by Harry’s words. That’s an interesting thing to say Louis thinks, risky even, although he’s sure Harry’s only joking.

Harry sets himself down, laying flat with his hands clasped over his chest. They both look up at the water stains covering the ceiling and Louis makes sure that no part of his body makes contact with Harry’s. There’s goosebumps all over his skin and he doesn’t need Harry to know that. His blood is thrumming loudly in his ears again making a whooshing sound that drowns out the constant traffic and sirens filtering through the closed window. It’s been years since he’s lain next to someone else. Not since Martin.

Harry reaches a hand out and switches off the lamp plunging them into inky darkness. Louis’ pulse roars. His body jerks in surprise when Harry drapes a blanket over him. The quick movement causes another surge of pain to course through him and he has to assure Harry more than once that he’s really okay.

Seemingly satisfied, Harry utters a quiet goodnight and turns on his side facing away from Louis. Louis’ grateful. The urge to reach out and find Harry’s hand in the dark had been strong, the thought consuming him enough to numb his pain. He lies in the dark trying his hardest not to imagine what it would be like to turn and curl around Harry, pull his taller body towards him and tuck their arms together against Harry’s stomach. Louis almost groans out loud before he catches himself and closes his eyes instead.

He’s finally on the edge of sleep when scuttling noises bring him back to full wakefulness. Louis wrinkles his nose in disgust. The place must be infested.

“ _In the middle of night when the roaches come out headed straight for your heart like a bullet in the dark …”_ Harry’s smokey voice fills Louis’ ears as he softly sings in achingly beautiful bluesy notes.

“Are you serious right now?” Louis does his best not to laugh.

“Hey, it’s a Harry Styles original. Besides, if I didn’t make a joke out of it I’d be too grossed out to sleep.”

Louis hums in response and Harry sings a little more before sighing quietly and drifting off. Louis suspects this is something Harry does often. Cover the undesirable things in a veneer of smiles and good humour. It reminds Louis of a time when he didn’t have to cover, of when everything was sunny with a warm glow. Those times are long gone but in this dingy room with roaches and god knows what else, Louis swears he feels a touch of that gold.

Louis shifts a bit, tugging his tattered blanket up to his chin. He’s battered and cold, tired and confused. There’s a beautiful man with too many curls and too long hair lying next to him oblivious to whats going on inside him. He feels Harry’s body like sparks of static electricity, the proximity of him humming in Louis’ veins. Lying there as still as he possibly can, Louis finds himself floating silently in a pool of want. It’s deep and endless and he doesn’t know how long it will take before he surrenders to the depths and drowns never to resurface. He’s never felt this before. It scares him and he wants it more than anything.


	6. Memory And Air

The next afternoon finds them back at Louis’ place. Harry has to take more of Louis’ weight than Louis’ comfortable with in order to make it back down the stairs and outside to hail a cab. A hospital doesn’t even occur to him and when Harry mentions it he’s silenced with one look. They both know it’s really the last resort. Louis’ swears people walk into that place and come out worse for wear. Everything is broken here, proper medical care the least of it. 

Harry backed away quickly from that particular fight and is currently stashing an old suitcase in the corner of Louis’ cramped living room. One night in Harry’s room has given Louis a new appreciation for his own place. He’s determined to tidy it up and treat it better. He promises. Someday. Until then, he told Harry to pack up his shit and stay on his couch. Harry’s landlord doesn’t deserve not even a bit more of his money and besides he needs to save as much as he can seeing as he was now out of work thanks in part to Louis. Harry tells him that his guilt is completely misplaced but Louis can’t help but feel it anyway.

Sipping on more of his abysmal tea Louis muses about the turn of events a day has brought. Only yesterday he’d chased Harry away and now he’s invited him into his home. He’s being reckless, he can feel it. He feels more alive than he has in ages.

Over the next few days Louis rests as much as his naturally energetic body will allow and Harry frets over him every waking moment. Louis keeps waiting to be annoyed, keeps waiting to get tired of Harry’s presence and his constant concern and wanting to have his place back to himself. But the feeling never comes. If anything, seeing Harry puttering around making tea and chastising him whenever he puts too much strain on his healing body pleases Louis more than he thought it possibly could.

On rainy evenings they sit on beat up upholstery with cups of tea that always turn into glasses of something much stronger and they talk. They talk about the things they’ve seen but now their anecdotes have moved beyond talk of cases and crime scenes. They’ve taken on a meandering, random quality. It’s any and everything that comes to mind. That horrible movie Louis saw one time that made him swear off ever spending money on pictures again or Harry’s belief that the cemeteries have contaminated the city’s water supply. He’s adamant and Louis can’t help but laugh at his enthusiastic hand waving as he recounts his evidence which is basically that it tastes unpleasant.

Sometimes Louis plays one of his records, the scratchy music coming from his old record player adding a chaotic backdrop to their lazy tales. Louis always leans towards the blues but tonight he puts on one of his favourite jazz instrumentals, the saxophone mingling with the rain that’s been battering against the windows since afternoon.

As soon as the needle makes contact with the scratched up vinyl Harry gets a far away look in his eyes, as if he’s seeing something through layers and layers of time. In moments like this, though rare, Harry looks older, he looks more settled into his late twenties the way he must be though Louis’ never asked his precise age. Usually his thick hair, pale skin and rosy lips make him seem boyish and when his dimples appear he’s almost cherub like but right now his eyes look older than Louis’ ever seen them, almost as old as his own. Louis knows he’s the more experienced of the two, the more hardened but Harry had been right in the beginning - Louis can’t be much older than Harry is. Louis’ settled into his early thirties but he often feels older, feeling like he’d missed out on the frivolity of youth but he isn’t alone in that. Everyone carries their burdens, their own weight, dreams both unattainable and far removed.

Louis retakes his seat, sitting gingerly and settling back into the worn cushions of his armchair as Harry sits - statue like - on the sofa opposite. Louis tries to decipher what Harry’s thinking about. He’s having no luck but he doesn’t have to try for long as Harry speaks without prompt.

“I grew up in jazz clubs,” he says, voice quiet, barely above a whisper. Louis strains to hear him. He doesn’t want to miss this. “Underground and fucking shady. The air… the air, it was always about 95% smoke, 5% oxygen.” Harry has a wistful look on his face and Louis can’t help the small smile that forms. He get’s lost in Harry’s world, it’s as if he’s sitting in that stuffy, smokey club. He’s never been more interested in someone else’s words.

Harry turns his glass idly around in his hands, around and around, eyes still slightly glazed. “My mother was a singer. God, she was so beautiful and her voice… her voice was so raw with a gritty rasp, the kind your’e born with, can’t be learned.” He sits back taking a sip of his drink. “I can still feel those clubs wrapped around me. All the booze, women and pain you could ever want.” He looks at Louis over the rim of his glass. “I guess I kept the booze … and the pain.”

A complete silence hangs over them when Harry stops speaking. The music has faded, coming to Louis through a distant tunnel. Questions had been forming in his mind. Questions about Harry’s mother and how he’d gotten into law enforcement but as their eyes lock and his last words filter to Louis’ brain, the questions die away. Harry kept the booze and the pain. Not the women.

Louis feels his pulse race and he averts his eyes to the threadbare faded carpet beneath his feet. There’s warmth flowing through him and his face heats. There’s a sense of relief so deep in him that he can burst from it. It’s a relief he hadn’t expected from a confession he’d only hoped for. The words Harry had spoken are vague enough so that he can easily snatch them up and back again if he needs to. Louis wonders if it’s the first time Harry’s tested someone in this way.

Harry has already told Louis that he’s okay with Martin being gay and he knows that Louis is okay with it too. Yet, Louis is more than aware that just because someone may be tolerant it’s still often too risky to open up, to trust someone else with that kind of truth about one’s self and here Harry has done just that.

Louis does his best to show Harry that he understands. That he’s picked up on what Harry’s said and it’s more than okay, that it’s brilliant. He tries to show Harry with his eyes and the small smile playing at his lips. Harry seems to get it but there’s still that caution in his eyes, trepidation, uncertainty. Louis knows that look so well, too well. Louis knows the feeling. He’s seen it in his own eyes, felt it in the racing of his pulse. He sets his glass down and leans forward in his chair. He will give Harry this, he will give Harry his truth.

“You’ve probably been wondering why I’m so hung up on this case.”

“Yea …” Harry seems momentarily thrown by the change in conversation.

“We--,” Louis takes a breath and swallows his own uncertainty. He clasps clammy hands together, hiding the nervousness evident in the way they’ve started to shake. “We were lovers.”

Louis holds Harry’s gaze, steady and strong and for a moment the only sound is the patter of the unrelenting rain. The music has stopped. Louis swears Harry’s eyes glow in the low light from the floor lamp. His intake of breath is audible.

“God Lou-- I’m...I’m sorry.”

Harry tries to hide it but Louis sees the brief flash of relief wash over his features. It should’ve been hard to spot but Louis’ quick, he’s used to watching and assessing. He doesn’t mind the conflicting emotions that are flitting across Harry’s face. He doesn’t mind because he understands them. His insides have been rolling in them since he met Harry. It’s constant push and pull. It’s time he picked a side.

“Are you telling me you never suspected?” Louis quirks a brow at Harry.

“I-- I…”

Harry’s floundering and Louis laughs and Harry laughs with him and all the air that had been stolen floods back into the room. The downpour continues, pressing against the old windows, as the tension bleeds away from Harry’s face. His eyes sparkle with moisture and it adds another depth to their endlessness.

Harry fixes those eyes on Louis’ face and Louis sobers under the gaze. It’s like being burned through. He holds on to the feeling and he tells Harry his and Martin’s story. He tells him things he hasn’t told anyone else. Louis shows pieces of himself that he’s kept completely hidden, things that not even Martin had seen. He does it because he can see that Harry needs it. He does it because he needs it too. Louis has the overwhelming urge to make sure Harry knows that he’s right there with him. He needs Harry to know that he isn’t alone.

By the time they say goodnight there’s a new depth to their friendship. They’re bound together now by more than Martin’s death, by more than the desire to solve it. It’s as if a chasm has been crossed and they’re connected now in a way that they hadn’t been before.

Louis lies in bed with bits of their conversation floating through his mind. He snatches at random threads of it, holding on and examining every aspect before letting them go to grab at another. He finds that he’s not anxious about what he revealed, he finds himself calm and sure. There’s relief in that and it gives him enough peace to drift off into a dreamless sleep.

 

*** *** ***

 

“I’m going back to Elsner’s place.” Harry’s standing in the open doorway of Louis’ office. Afternoon light filters in and Louis has to squint to see him properly when he looks up. 

“Alright, just give me a minute.” Louis makes to stand. He just needs to grab his coat. It still has a large gash down the side and every time he thinks about it his blood boils.

“No, no you need to rest.”

“I can manage it Harry it’s been a while.”

“I don’t doubt you can but the more you rest the sooner you’ll be back to full capacity.”

Louis grumbles. He’s already back to full capacity. He can’t be blamed if he’s been putting over the tiniest bit, revelling in the doting attention Harry has been lavishing on him. He wants to protest even if it will give the game up and he’ll be found out.

“I just want to give it a proper comb through. We need something to go on and we got interrupted the last time we were there.” Harry says as he makes his way fully into the office, stopping in front of Louis’ desk.

Louis has to agree. The first time they’d hardly even gotten a proper look at the place before they’d had to make their escape. Louis takes a deep breath and settles further behind his desk. Harry is more than capable of doing this on his own. After all, combing through scenes and finding evidence used to be his day job before he’d met Louis. Besides that, letting Harry go alone will be a sign of trust from Louis. He thinks of what Harry revealed to him back in his stuffy bedsit and while Louis believes him and has firmly chosen to keep Harry at his side, this gives him another opportunity to _show_ Harry that he has that trust, much like he did a couple of nights ago when he’d revealed his relationship with Martin.

“Okay,” Louis says simply, leaning back against his chair.

Harry smiles at him and seems a little surprised by his acquiescing without a fight.

“Take that with you,” Louis says, indicating the lock picking kit that’s currently balancing precariously on the edge of his desk.

“I’m no where as quick as you with this but I think I’ll manage,” Harry says as he swipes it up in his large hands. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Harry turns and grabs his coat from where it’s draped over a particularly large stack of files. A few slide off the top from the motion but neither of them pay much mind. The mess of papers mingle perfectly amongst the rest. He’s almost through the threshold when Louis stops him with his words.

“Be safe H.”

Harry turns a bit and looks at Louis over his shoulder. He’s so striking that it steals Louis’ breath away from him.

“I will Lou.” Harry says it was a small smile and gentle eyes before he turns away and sweeps out of the room.

Louis only breathes again when he hears the front door close. The image of Harry - back towards Louis, head turned, his eyes smouldering - is imprinted on Louis’ brain. He sees it in perfect detail with every blink of his eyes. Slowly he makes his way from behind his desk to his small bedroom so he can stretch out his cramped muscles, take a nap and daydream a little about what that look from Harry can possibly mean.

A few hours later, he’s in the kitchenette stirring a small pot of soup when Harry returns. Louis smiles a little as he feels Harry’s presence looming behind him trying to get a glimpse at the contents.

“Perfect,” Harry says as he lays a brown paper bag on the counter. The smell of bread wafts up to Louis’ nostrils before he has a chance to enquire about the contents of the bag. His mouth waters a little, it’s been so long since he’s had any. Still he shakes his head slightly in Harry’s direction.

“You didn’t have to spend your money on this Harry.”

“Nothing beats a good loaf of bread Lou, besides it’s the end of the day so it wasn’t full price.”

Louis nods at him, a little more satisfied. If money’s low for him then it must be about non existent for Harry. He can’t help but worry and he can’t help the little stab of guilt he still feels.

“Found anything?” Louis asks, changing the subject to Harry’s purpose for going out in the first place. He fills two bowls with his valiant attempt at vegetable soup.

Harry hums as he cuts thick slices of the round loaf to complete their meal. Louis looks at him and can’t help the smile that overtakes his face again. He can tell that Harry’s ravenous. Paying attention to proper sustenance isn’t ever at the top of their priorities.

“Food first?” Louis looks to him with a smirk.

“Mmm,” Harry mumbles around a mouth full of bread.

Louis laughs and takes his bowl over to the scuffed laminated dining table. He tests his range of motion, twisting a bit back and forth, and though he feels a twinge, he’s moving as well as he was before the attack. Harry follows him with his own bowl and the slices of bread.

About half way through the meal Harry seems ready to talk. Louis sits up  ,reluctantly abandoning the food in front of him - he’s pleased to realise that his attempt at cooking has yielded better results than expected. However, he wants to give Harry his full attention. Any movement in the case is too important to miss. It’s been stagnant, nothing but dead ends.

“It was mostly a disappointment. There was no indication of where he could’ve gone or why but I did find this.” Harry jumps up and gathers his coat from where he’d lain it over the back of the sofa. He pulls out a box of matches and retakes his seat. He slides them across the table to Louis and with squinted eyes Louis examines it.

The outside is plain black with the words _Fool’s Gold_ emblazoned across the front in dull yellow letters. _Fool’s Gold,_ the name sparks recognition in Louis’ brain. He’s been to this place. It’s more of a dive, not in any way reputable. It’s shitty to be frank. He’s tailed a few unfaithful husbands there before.

“Why’d this stand out?” He asks Harry, tapping a lean finger against the cardboard.

“I know this place, been there a few times. Once during a raid and once after a particularly nasty bar fight. People like Elsner with jobs that pay like his does don’t frequent that joint. It got me curious.”

“Hmm.” Louis picks up the matches turning them over in his hand. There’s nothing printed on the back. He sets them down again and picks up his spoon to finish his dinner. “It’s a good a lead as any right now. Guess we know where we’re going next. Good job H.”

Harry colours slightly as he swallows more of his dinner. He mumbles a thanks averting his eyes to the surface of the table. Louis takes him in, enjoying the effect he has on Harry. They continue to eat in silence for a while, Harry avoiding Louis’ gaze. It’s usually the other way around. The realisation fills him with a hopeful satisfaction.

Eventually, bowl empty and bread reduced to crumbs, Harry clears his throat a little and looks back to Louis. “ _Fool’s Gold_ is closed tomorrow, owner likes to act as if having closing days and set hours makes that shit hole somehow more than what it is.”

Louis grunts his disappointment. Pretence, why do people here even bother? He twists a little in his seat, testing his range of motion again even though he knows he’s fine. The large angry bruise that had adorned his side has almost fully faded now, no longer angry purples, blacks and blues. Even though he really could’ve gone with Harry earlier he’s glad he stayed behind if only to see that proud, pleased look on Harry’s face that he’s provided them with their next clue after a series of setbacks.

 

*** *** ***

 

Two evenings later, Louis’ occupying himself before they have to head to _Fool’s Gold_ by pretending to tidy his office. His isn’t sure what Harry’s up to but he’d left him in the living area a while ago. Louis can’t be in the same room with him right now. He’s not sure he can be in the same room with Harry ever again. Harry’s words from this morning are still making their way around Louis’ brain and it’s hard to function with him too close. It’s hard to hide the rush of heat that floods his face whenever he dwells on them.

_“Seeing you like this is mesmerising.”_

As if on cue the words are back and Louis feels his face colour. He shakes his head and moves another stack of papers fruitlessly from one end of his desk to the other. He’d been making them cups of tea, just pouring the hot water into the chipped mugs when he’d felt Harry’s eyes on him. Then Harry had said it. He told Louis he was mesmerising. Who the fuck says shit like that? Louis wonders this as he flips through old newspapers.

His eyes catch on bold print and he skims the headlines, _Homosexuality - It’s causes, Its prevalence, Its cures._ He throws the paper into the bin. _Growth of Overt Homosexuality in City Provokes Wide Concern._ [1] The other paper follows the former. Suddenly, it’s not enough and Louis reaches in and pulls them both back out so that he can tear them apart. Louis doesn’t stop until they are nothing but shreds, dirty paper snow littering his desk and falling to the floor. He gathers up all the pieces making sure not to miss a single one and shoves it all deep into the bin. He doesn’t realise that his breathing is elevated until the task is done. He takes a moment to compose himself sitting on the edge of his desk, eyes closed.

He sighs, a tired sound and pushes off. Standing in the middle of his office with his hands on his hips he looks around for any other stray newsprint. He takes them all and bundles them up throwing them in the bin without a glance. The last one he touches is the one with Martin’s death splashed across the front page. _Martin Kincaid, A rising star gone too soon_. The story was as sensational as they could make it but glowing in its praise for his talent. Louis wondered what it would have said if these journalists had known, had known who Martin really was. If they had known all of him would they still say he will be missed? Or would it have been good riddance? Louis sets the paper aside and moves on to his haphazard files.

_“Seeing you like this is mesmerising.”_

A smile tugs at Louis’ lips, the memory of Harry’s words draws him back into the bubble they’ve created here. It’s a dichotomy, the difference between the warmth effervescing in his chest and the residual cold those headlines have left in his veins. Sometimes with Harry here in his home, in his head, in his heart, Louis can almost forget that the world outside doesn’t want him the way he is, the way they both are. But fuck the world because the ones who matter see him and think he’s just fine. People like Liam who he really should see more often and now Harry. Harry who thinks he’s mesmerising. Louis sees Harry too and Louis thinks he’s beautiful.

_“Seeing me like what?” Louis asked Harry, looking up from the steaming mugs to see the sparkle in his eyes._

_“Soft, before the day hardens your edges. The way you move is … elegant. Seeing you all squinty eyed and sleepy feels like a privilege.”_

Just thinking about it, Louis needs to sit down again. He runs a hand through the stubble on his cheeks that’s dangerously close to becoming a beard. _Elegant_ , _soft._ He doesn’t think anyone has ever said those words in relation to him for as long as he’s been alive.

Louis turns his head to the grimy window, folds his arms across his chest and watches as the falling night swallows up the murky streets. Louis knows he’s relaxed himself around Harry. Ever since their conversation, the realisation that they both had the same tastes, that they both were men who are exclusively attracted to men, he feels so much freer. Not schooling his movements or the way he holds himself and clearly Harry has noticed. Not only that but Harry sees beauty in it, he’s taken by it, feels that it’s a privilege just to be able to witness it.

Louis thinks of the tentative way that Harry had told him about his sexuality, the risk he’d taken, the trust he’d placed in Louis. He wonders how Harry dealt with the pressures of being inside law enforcement. Part of the appeal of being a Private Detective is the rogue nature of it. He seeks justice for his clients often outside of the broken, corrupt confines and expectations of the flawed law. Louis relishes in the antagonistic relationship he has with City PD. It almost always feels like it’s him against them, the way it should be. He could never imagine actually being one of them. But Harry had been. He’d done that and Louis knows that takes an incredible strength. The longer he knows Harry, the deeper his respect and affection for him grows.

Walking alone in the back alleys of the movie district the day he’d been attacked, Louis had been so irritated by the way Harry had gotten so wholly under his skin but now staring into the night, Louis doesn’t want it any other way. He’s fallen for Harry. It’s complete and without doubt. He’d fallen for Harry from the moment he’d walked into his office with his curls dripping dingy rainwater onto his black trench coat.

Chasing Martin’s killer was supposed to be a journey into darkness, into shadow and smoke but it isn’t turning out that way. Louis has to see this through to the end and he will but the end now seems like a bridge to something else, something more, rather than the void that he’d imagined to be waiting for him on the other side.

It’s almost time to leave. Louis lingers in the doorway of his office for a moment, taking in the room. Without meaning to he’s actually managed to do a half decent job of tiding the space. He closes the door behind him and takes the few steps necessary before he turns into his living space. Harry’s seated on the sofa hunched over something and Louis walks over to get a better look or perhaps to be closer to him, he isn’t sure which. What he sees makes his breath catch.

“Are you mending my coat?”

The garment is draped over Harry’s legs as he struggles with a needle and thread. Louis briefly wonders where Harry would’ve even gotten such a thing as he definitely doesn’t have any sewing equipment in his home. But there next to harry on the sofa is a tiny sewing kit. He must’ve brought it with him. Louis places a hand on his chest as he feels his heart tapping loudly against it’s cage.

Harry grunts a little in affirmation as he concentrates. He pulls the thread taut and snaps it, inspecting his work with a critical eye. “You can’t go around like this, what kind of private detective would you be?” There’s a smirk on his lips as he looks up at Louis and Louis shakes his head not hiding his fondness.

“What?” Harry asks seeing the small smile on his face.

“Thank you,” Louis says quietly. “I can’t sew for shit and I can’t afford a new one.”

Harry grins, preening a little as he stands and holds the coat up. “It’ll never be the same but it’s a like a scar. There’s a story there.” He quirks a brow at Louis and Louis huffs a laugh as he regards the mended gash. It looks exactly like a scar and he’s endeared by it. It’s two memories bound into one, the attack and Harry’s gesture.

Louis takes the garment from Harry’s outstretched hand. Their fingers brush and it’s like sweet agony. He’ll never get used to these flashes of heat and fire. Louis wonders what it would be like to hold Harry’s hand, to intertwine their fingers, to press their palms together deliberately and with intent.

Harry uses that same hand to push his hair away from his face and Louis’ eyes follow the movement as slender fingers comb through the strands. Their eyes lock and Harry freezes, fingers tangled in the end of his curls right at his jawline. Louis stares and Harry stares back and for one small moment Louis feels like anything is possible. A couple steps forward, a tilt of his head, a parting of lips and he could have this. He’s a detective after all and he’s not imagining the look on Harry’s face, the way Harry’s green eyes are boring into his blue ones.

Louis wants this so badly that he doesn’t even notice that he’s let his coat slip from his fingers. It falls to the carpet with a soft sound and Harry clears his throat, nervously shifting his stance and taking a small step to the side.

“Lou, your coat.”

Louis almost startles and he follows Harry’s line of sight to the crumpled fabric at his feet. “Right, uh … are you ready to go?”

Harry avoids his gaze as he clears his throat again and answers that he is. Louis nods, learns how to breathe again and swoops his coat up. He pulls it on as Harry grabs his own. Louis worries that the atmosphere around them will be awkward but as they slip out into the damp night it’s not. There’s an ease around them, the set of their shoulders relaxed but determined as they head to their destination. Louis’ relief blooms in his chest and every brush of their arms as they move swiftly down the pavement serves to ground him further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 The headlines were taken verbatim from 1950's New York newspapers [return to text]


	7. Fool's Gold

_Fool’s Gold_ is a shit hole. Harry coughs to cover up a bark of surprised laughter when Louis voices this opinion. They push through the doors and already Louis’ face is set in a scowl. He hates places like this. It’s not just seedy, seedy has its appeal even if it lacks elegance. No, this place is just a dump in almost every sense of the word.

“Okay, this is worse than I remember,” Harry leans into Louis’ space and mock whispers, wrinkling his nose for effect.

Louis snorts. It’s just as shitty as he remembers but he allows Harry his dramatics. They walk into the main room and are hit by a wall of smoke so thick it burns Louis’ eyes. It’s more acrid, more stale, just _more_ than Louis’ in any way interested in breathing in. His office may be permeated in it but there’s a density here, layers of desperation clinging to this formidable haze. He wonders if this is what those Jazz clubs Harry talked about were like. He doubts it. Harry’s waving his hand in front of his face as if he can bat it away from him but he can’t. The cloud in here is permanent, ingrained in every surface, etched deeply into the lungs and blood of every patron. Taking shallow breaths, trying to find patches of usable oxygen, they make their way across the wooden floor.

Shoes stick with every step and Louis - who is in no way used to luxury - finds himself disgusted. There’s an elbow digging into his side and he quirks his head to look at Harry sideways. There’s a smirk on his partner’s full lips and Louis raises his eyebrows in silent inquiry.

“You look like a snob. I swear you’re actually looking down your nose.”

Louis huffs a laugh at that, regretting it instantly as more of the stale air invades his lungs. “I’m no snob Styles but a man must have standards.”

Harry looks at him, eyes hooded and dimple threatening to pop. “I don’t think we fit in here.”

Louis grunts his agreement. He doesn’t want to open his mouth more than he absolutely has to. Through stinging eyes he surveys the room. As usual no one pays them any mind. The place is densely populated by what Louis assumes are regulars. They chat and laugh, drinking and adding even more atmosphere with thick cigars and ashtrays stuffed full of spent cigarettes. Raucous games of cards are being played at a few of the tables and one threatens to spill into violence. The others around the yelling players don’t bat an eye, instead turning their drunk attention to an old man in the corner strumming on a beat up guitar as he warbles on about pain, so much pain. It’s clear to Louis that the people here left hope at the door, if they ever really had any at all.

Harry walks beside him squinting, taking in the room, hands in his trouser pockets, coat sweeping gently behind him. His tie knot is too lose and the first button on his shirt is undone. Louis doesn’t know if he’s trying to look dishevelled to fit in but he looks like a angel wading through grey cloud, a study in innocence and feigned nonchalance. Louis doesn’t even get irritated at himself anymore when he has thoughts like that, he rolls with it and keeps moving. He knows they aren’t going away anytime soon, if anything, thoughts like that one are only going to increase in frequency and Louis finds that he doesn’t mind nearly as much as he used to.

They make their way past rotting wooden railings and down the four steps it takes to get to the bar. On their way past the arguing table Louis catches snippets of the row and shudders when he realises the two men are placing bets on who gets the right to ask out some particular woman. Their crude language and offensive gesturing causes Louis to wish he knew who she was so he could warn her off completely. He shares a look with Harry and sees the hardness in his eyes as he narrows them at the men in disgust. They’re wearing matching frowns and Louis notices that Harry’s doing his own bit of looking down his pristine nose. Louis doesn’t mention it.

They’re at the the bar now and they pull stools out, Louis’ finger catches painfully on a ripped edge of the faux leather cushion, the sharpness not enough to break skin but enough to fuel his irritation. He hates it here. Why on earth would Elsner be in this place? That’s what they’re here to find out he reminds himself. The sooner they do that, the sooner they can leave.

Harry settles next to him, shooting him concerned glances but before Louis can reassure him that he’s relatively fine the bartender ambles over, rotund figure stretching a too small, greasy, and sweat stained white undershirt. He pours them each generous portions of a whiskey Louis can’t be paid to touch after filling the glasses with murky ice. The stains on his t-shirt are distracting and Harry curls his lip a little. Louis mirrors him and flicks his eyes away to stare into his glass. His distaste for this establishment is growing by the second.

“Do you think they wash these things?” Harry asks holding up his smudged glass to the dim light of the room.

“Judging by the hair occupying my drink, I’d say no.”

“Oh god that’s gross.” Harry peers into the swirling liquid and recoils when his eyes make contact with the long black strand floating its way across the surface of Louis’ whiskey. He sits back on his stool and firmly pushes his own drink away from him. The bartender smirks a little as he pulls out a grey, dingy rag and starts to wipe down the bar top.

Louis leans his coat covered elbows on the bar and quickly gets the bartender’s attention. The man pauses in his task of adding even more smudges to the already grimy surface of the bar to quirk a bored brow in Louis’ direction. Louis reaches into his coat and the man’s brow raises even higher until Louis emerges with a photo of Elsner that he’d swiped from his place.

“This guy one of your customers?”

The bartender scratches at a spot behind his ear as he puts on a show of thinking, squinting at the photo but making no effort to hold it for a better look. Louis’ rapidly losing patience and he thinks Harry is a few seconds away from growling.

Finally the man looks away and resumes his wiping. “The _Fool’s Gold_ keeps its secrets,” he says around an ugly smirk.

Louis feels the fingers of his free hand curl tightly and he makes an effort to relax his fist. He glances at Harry and he’s pushing his glass around with the tip of his index finger, jaw set. Behind them the raucous of the room continues to grow in volume, the argument they passed earlier escalating. Louis sighs and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a wad of crumpled bills, enough to pay for the drinks they didn’t order and to add a generous tip. He throws it on the bar top and the man’s face lights up as he quickly pockets the cash.

“Why didn’t you just say you were looking for Elsner,” The man asks with mock innocence.

Louis fights the urge to roll his eyes and punch the man in the face. He just about manages to suppress it but it’s a near thing. It helps that Harry smirks a little at the guy’s bullshit, raising an amused brow in Louis’ direction.

“Does he come here often?” Louis asks.

“Well he used to, almost every night for weeks on end.”

“Used to?”

The man’s scratching at a place on his scalp hidden by the fall of greasy hair. Louis takes a deep breath and waits. “Yea used to. He stopped--” the man breaks off suddenly and slowly lowers his arm to his side.

Louis and Harry lean forward on their stools. Louis wraps his hand around his glass for something to hold on to while Harry’s fingers dig into the wood of the bar.

“When did he stop?” Louis keeps the eagerness out of his voice, keeps it cool and even. The bartender drops his rag, it makes a sad flopping sound and the edge of it lands in Harry’s glass. Harry’s sighs but he doesn’t break eye contact.

“It was-- it was just before Martin Kincaid’s murder hit the papers.” He leans forward and whispers this sentence, a waft of stale breath flowing over Louis and Harry both.

They lean back, shoulders brushing and Louis has the strange urge to reach for Harry’s hand. “What is it man, spit it out.” Louis’ voice is stern and he fixes the bartender with his icy blue stare. The man fidgets under it. There’s something more he wants to say and Louis needs to hear it.

“It’s just that-- look I know this is a shitty place alright, but I meant it when I said we keep our secrets best we can.”

“Alright…” Louis nods and trails off, letting the man know he understands and gesturing for him to continue.

“They came in here together… Martin and Elsner. I’d bring Martin in the back way, real quiet like because he didn’t want anyone to know he was here and he’d wait for Elliot. They’d spend hours here man, hours. What was a guy like Martin Kincaid doing in this dump?” The man swept his arm out in illustration. “I didn’t understand it but I didn’t question it you know? I figured maybe he needed a place to get away from being “Rising Star Martin Kincaid” the pressure and all that.”

The bartender keeps droning on, now that he’s started talking he doesn’t seem to know how or care to stop. He’s opining on Martin’s talent, offering unasked for critiques of his performances. Louis tunes him out as he seeks out Harry’s eyes. They look at each other, swivelling their bodies on their stools. _Why would Martin come to a place like this? Why the back room?_ _Why’d Elsner stop coming after Martin died?_

Louis silently asks himself and Harry each one, boring into those green eyes with his own. Harry’s widens a bit and then flicks away and Louis has his answer. _They were hiding._ He tugs on Harry’s black coat sleeve, drawing his attention back. _Hiding from what?_ Harry tilts his head slightly. _Or from who?_ His fingers slip along the edge of Harry’s coat and he digs them in, feeling Harry’s thin wrist underneath.

“… I’ve got an eye for talent you know.”

“What?” Harry asks, voice slightly rough and a bit breathless as he pulls his attention away from Louis to focus again on the bartender.

“An eye,” he taps his face to the side of one. “I reckon you both could be actors, you’ve got the right look.”

Harry sighs again and this time Louis mimics it. This man’s clearly surpassed his usefulness and the shouts from the corner of the room are reaching dangerous levels. Louis stands, letting his fingers fall from their grip on Harry’s wrist. Harry pushes up from his own stool and leans into him looking like he’s about to say something. Louis waits to hear what it is but before he can, another voice interrupts from his left.

“I know where he is.”

Louis has to swivel around to see who’s addressing them. Harry peers over his shoulder and they’re both looking at a dishevelled middle aged man. His dark shirt is unbuttoned nearly halfway down, revealing a dingy undershirt stretched at the neck where a silver cross dangles, dipping just below it. He’s got silver streaks running though black hair and a grizzly stubble that’s almost all white. His eyes though, they’re the thing that catch Louis’ attention. They’re shifty, seemingly unable to settle on a target for any determinable amount of time. Louis’ own eyes narrow and he feels Harry shift behind him, arm grazing his own. Louis turns to look at Harry and Harry’s so close he has to take a step back.

“Where is he then?” Harry asks, voice steady but lowered.

Louis turns back to the man seated with his hands folded in his lap. He wishes it will be this easy that this man will answer Harry and they can be on their way to Elsner and some more answers but experience has taught him that anything is rarely as simple as he would like it.

“It’s best if I show ya,” the man says and Louis’ sure he hears the bartender grunt. Louis looks over and he’s pouring drinks for some impatient customers who’ve crowded around.

“Lou I don’t like this.” Harry’s whispered words fill his ears and Louis catches a full breath of Harry’s sweet, spicy scent before the thick atmosphere in the room crowds back in and disguises it. He agrees with Harry. He doesn’t like this either. He doesn’t like this at all. But, they need something to show for this excursion. Louis’ not willing to go home empty handed.

He half turns to regard Harry while keeping who he’s sure is a slippery character still in his periphery. “We need something to go on H. Besides, it’s two of us and one of him, we keep our wits out, anything shifty and we bolt.”

Harry breathes and nods at him and when Louis turns away from Harry he feels Harry’s fingers against his spine. It’s a deliberate touch, a sweeping motion just an inch or two up and down his back. Louis leans into it and Harry does it again. The motion is hidden by the angling of their bodies on the side facing the room and by the wood of the bar on the other. It sends sparks up Louis spine but it grounds him, reassures him that Harry’s with him, that he’s got his back, that he can rely on him. Louis takes a moment to savour it and the man takes his moment of quiet as hesitation.

“It’s not far from here actually,” he says, eyes flitting between the two of them back and forth, back and forth.

“Alright,” Louis says, voice full of gravel, brows drawn into a frown.

The man grins and pops up from his stool. As soon as he does Louis clamps a strong hand onto his shoulder. “If I were you, I wouldn’t try anything.”

The man winces under Louis’ grip and looks sufficiently intimidated. “I wont,” he says quickly. Louis isn’t reassured.

As they make their way back through the room and towards the exit, the argument they passed on their way to the bar becomes physical. Louis expertly dodges a glass and it sails between him and Harry before smashing against something, somewhere. Louis spares a look back and sees the bartender wiping out glassware with his dirty rag as if nothing at all is happening and the other patrons simply making room for the two men who are now throwing punches. Across the way on the little makeshift stage, the old man continues to sing about death and loss, eyes closed, fingers strumming his guitar, oblivious to the chaos.

As soon as they push through the exit, Harry takes gulps of the air. Over and over he takes deep breaths, filling his lungs and expelling them. Louis would be amused if he wasn’t doing the same thing. The man looks at them oddly but Louis doesn’t care at all. The air, especially in this district can never be confused for fresh but it’s quality is non the less a strong contrast to what they’d been subjected to inside the _Fool’s Gold._ The man snickers and Harry fixes his best glare in his direction. It shuts him up fast and Louis’ lips quirk in silent amusement.

The cold streets are crowded and they find themselves weaving around snogging couples and young men leaning against lamp posts with trails of smoke rising above their heads. It’s late now on a Friday night and people are eager to cast off the week and not think about the one that’s just ahead of them. There’s loud laughter and intermittent cursing, smashing bottles and distant police sirens. It’s like a discordant orchestra, a melody Louis is used to and he lets it fill his ears as he walks beside Harry with their companion a step ahead. Harry is turning his head this way and that, taking in their surroundings, so alert that Louis can feel him buzzing, leaving a trail of electricity that Louis feels connected to. It pulls him along and together they scope out every dark alley, every poorly lit street that they’re being led down.

The crowd thins and trickles away to nothing as they pass more bars, a couple of underground joints, more places boarded up than the last time Louis had been here. Each dark doorway and blacked out window is like a wound on the battered city, like parts of it are dying away. Louis’ not worried, no matter how battered down this place gets, something new always springs up in the place of the decayed until it’s that things’ turn to whither away too. Death and rebirth, over and over again.

With these thoughts swirling in his mind, Louis lets out a humourless laugh when they make the final turn and he sees where they’ve ended up. He looks up at the wrought Iron gates, at the black iron fence stretching across the front enclosing the final resting place for a countless number of the city’s residents. The gate is slightly ajar and it’s with a brief look at each other that they follow the man through the opening.

It’s another world in here, and their feet crunch loudly as they move along gravel pathways. Louis keeps his eyes averted from the countless headstones they pass, each one a life with a story, a beginning and a definite end.  There are stones in here marked with the names of people he used to know. He doesn’t come here often but he feels their pull now. Past clients, criminals, acquaintances, friends. The good and the bad lie side by side. The finality of it settles over Louis’ bones and already he can’t wait to see the back of this place.

Shadows seem to reach for them as they walk on and Louis shudders, a feeling of foreboding settling over him. Louis spares Harry a glance and he looks back and Louis sees his concern reflected back to him. Louis shrugs it off, it’s just the inherent creepiness of being amongst the dead. A chilly gust of wind rustles through the Cypress trees that stand tall, looming along the edges of the vast space. Harry visibly startles and Louis follows his line of sight to see a dark bird take flight from a gnarled Yew tree. It’s branches are spread, twisting over a mausoleum. Louis wonders who’s buried in its depths.

He draws his eyes away from the stone structure and sees that their companion is taking a detour away from the clearly marked paths and tracking over grass and crunchy gravel.

“What is this?” Harry’s voice carries in the stark stillness of the night.

There’s a swooping in Louis’ gut even before they receive an answer.

“I promised to show you where Elsner was, just keeping to my word.” There’s almost a gleeful touch to his voice as he speaks and it causes a flare of irritation to ripple through Louis’ veins.

Louis says nothing. He brushes his shoulder against Harry’s in a gesture that says they should follow. They’ve come this far. Harry huffs a breath and together they trek further into the depths of the cemetery.

It’s darker back here, older, the stones cracked, some are even crumbling and others are jagged. They poke up from the ground like teeth and Louis eyes them with suspicion. Harry trudges silently beside him, close enough to touch, their contact constant, the only real thing in this increasingly surreal landscape. They walk until they come to an old angel statue. It stands washed out grey, hands covering its eyes and Louis assumes its supposed to symbolise grief. But to him it’s hiding, in this city even the angels refuse to look.

The Cypresses loom around them, pressing in, swishing gently in the breeze. Louis turns to look at them standing like sentries on guard. For a moment he thinks he sees something flash in the darkness, muted moonlight catching on something metal perhaps. He eyes narrow and he stares into the blackness but sees nothing. He’s thinking about walking over to the trees where they line the wrought iron fence but he’s stopped by a tug of his sleeve. He turns to see Harry’s hand fall back to his side and realises that their companion has come to a halt in front of a small new gravestone. It’s mostly hidden from view behind brush and rumble. So very easy to miss.

The Cypress trees forgotten, Louis comes to stand in front of the stone. He sighs inwardly. He knows what he’s about to see even as the man gestures grandly at the epitaph making sure not to obscure their view of the words.

 

_Elliot Elsner_

_1916 - 1953_

 

Simple, inconsequential. There isn’t even a date to mark the year as if it’s unimportant. Louis sways on his feet. Louis doesn’t want to believe but his gut says it’s Elsner and nothing can ever convince Louis that Elliot wasn’t killed. His jaw clenches tight and his hands ball into fists and he feels himself stop breathing. Did Martin get caught up in something dangerous with Elliot? Was it the other way around? Did it get them both killed?

There’s a gasp and Harry’s voice rings out into the stillness. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Louis realises that between the two of them, Harry has been the one to break the silence since they’d left _Fool’s Gold_. Perhaps it’s because Louis has begun to feel a weariness pull at his resolve, a heavy kind of resignation ever since they set foot back onto the city streets. It’s almost as if he’d sensed that they’d end up here. Maybe not in a cemetery but with their search for Elliot Elsner ending in death. He’s not surprised. He’s tired. Louis squeezes his eyes shut and rubs them with the thumb and index finger of his left hand. He digs his fingers in until it’s uncomfortable when he hears the man snicker somewhere off to the side.

“There’s no proof he’s even in there.” Harry’s voice is rising, the more tired Louis gets the more fired up Harry seems. “There must be a coroner’s report, a certificate of death, something. We need to see that before I believe a word out of your mouth.”

Louis drops his hand and opens his eyes. He has to blink rapidly a few times before his vision settles back into place. Harry is looking at him, eyes a touch frantic, waiting for Louis’s agreement. Harry’s right of course and Louis nods at him, mouth set in a firm line.

“Well this is all you’re gonna get, the rest is up to you. If you dare.” The smile that curls the man’s lip is ugly and it snaps something inside of Louis.

He surges forward, grabs the man by the flimsy lapels of his coat and presses him roughly up against the lonely statue of the angel as it continues to hide.

“Who the fuck do you work for?” Louis’ voice is raspy, like he’s just smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. His throat is dry and his skin feels both hot and cold, tingling from where his fists have a white knuckled grip in the fabric of the man’s coat, and traveling all the way down to his toes.

“Easy now fellas.” Hands rise in surrender and for some reason it only angers Louis more.

Louis’ contemplating his next move when he feels the heat of Harry’s body as he crowds behind him. Harry makes no effort to dissuade him and when Louis looks over his shoulder, Harry’s staring into the man’s face with his disconcerting gaze.

“Look Elsner’s in there. Dig him up for all I give a fuck.”

“That’s not what he fucking asked you,” Harry says, voice low and hard.

No it’s not what Louis’ asked and he would really like an answer even though he’s unlikely to get one. The thing is, Louis figures that this guy works for whoever killed Martin and Elliot. He would really like a name because he’s starting to suspect that this may be a warning wrapped up in a trap. That feeling of foreboding sinks into him again and this time it holds tight. It has nothing to do with being in a graveyard at night and everything to do with being exposed. They need answers and they need them now and then they need to get the hell out of here.

“Rusty, Rusty, Rusty, why do you always get yourself into these kinds of situations?”

Louis whips around, losing his grip on the man who’s apparently called Rusty. There are four figures stepping out of the shadows. They simply appear where there was nothing before. Louis has to squint to see them properly, dressed in all black as they are. His gaze travels up and up and then up some more and Louis knows right away that they’re in trouble.

There’s a snicker as Rusty slinks away from his position against the statue “I did say it would cost ya.” He’s practically rubbing his hands in manic glee.

“No you didn’t,” Harry points out, clearing his throat to get the words out.

“Yea well, you shoulda known.”

One of the behemoth additions to this unfortunate tableau turns to regard Rusty, scoffing as he says, “Get out of here.”

“I never get to be part of the fun stuff,” Rust whines, voice petulant.

“I aint gonna tell you again, unless you want to join them.”

Rusty makes a nervous squeaking noise, more afraid than he’d been when Louis had gotten rough with him. That doesn’t bode well, it doesn’t bode well at all. Louis takes stock of the situation as Rusty trips over his feet in his haste to scramble away. He and Harry are surrounded and these men, they make Liam look like an overgrown toddler. Louis’ used to winning fights but part of that is down to knowing when and how to extricate himself from the ones that can’t be won. He’s drawing a blank. He spares a glance to Harry who’s breathing heavily through his nose, eyes darting between the men who are advancing on them, crowding them.

Louis opens his mouth to speak, to take a stab at diplomacy though his instincts say it will be of no use. Before he can even think of words to say, one rough shove drives him backward. The man behind him steps neatly out of the way before they can collide and Louis manages to stop his backward momentum just before it would’ve slammed him against the hiding angel.

Louis hears Harry’s gasp but he’s blocked from view by the two men advancing on him. Louis knows what this is and he knows the end result but still he has to try. He’s nothing if not stubborn, so he swings.

It’s like hitting a wall and Louis can’t stop his wince as the pain shoots up his arm. If he tries that again he’ll probably shatter his wrist. It doesn’t matter though because he’s not given another opportunity.

He’s picked up, feet dangling, only his tiptoes grazing the gravel and then he’s flung carelessly to the ground. He lands hard and it takes all the air out of him in one long whoosh. The heavy noise somewhere to the side of him tells him that Harry has been thrown too and Louis rolls to his side, struggling to regain his footing. He doesn’t get that far.

In the moment all Louis’ knows is pain and fear. The sensations slam into him with as much force as the concrete fists connecting with his too tender flesh. The pain he expects. It’s not anything he can’t handle. These men are professionals sending a message. _Stay away_ is ingrained in every blow. It’s the second time this message has been delivered. The first was from Jones’ lips but this time Louis figures he’s actually meant to listen. Not fucking likely.

So the pain he gets, it doesn’t faze him, he can do without it but he can survive it with his dignity in tact. It’s the fear that’s new. It’s not for himself, it’s reserved completely for the beautiful man with the brown curls and intense eyes. Louis knows what this is but he isn’t sure if Harry does. He tries to keep his eyes on Harry, not even shielding himself as much or as well as he should in his distraction. Louis is too desperate to let Harry know that he isn’t alone.

A kick to his side where he’s still healing causes his brain to white out completely for a moment. Louis grunts through the pain, gritting his teeth and setting his jaw. Another hit and he’s breathless, gasping for air, fighting against lungs that don’t want to cooperate. His mind wants to panic but Louis won’t let it. He pushes through the white hot haze and rolls to his side. Inadvertently his movement exposes him even more but he has to make sure that Harry’s still there.

Huffing through the pain Louis strains his neck, forcing himself to keep his eyes open. The thugs are working Harry over with just as much professional detachment but Harry’s not making a sound. Despite himself the panic starts to set in. There’s nothing from Harry, no protest, no begging. If he’s breathing Louis can’t hear it over the crunching gravel and ragged breaths of the assholes currently kicking at them with heavy boots. Louis tastes blood where it’s trickled over his lips from his nose and he spits, red tinged saliva landing on an old crooked tombstone.

He tries to move, turning and dragging himself on his elbows the thugs hovering over him just an afterthought now. He has to see Harry’s face. He has to know he’s okay. One more kick sends hims sprawling and again Louis notes their professionalism. They could be stomping him to pieces right now but they’re not. It’s not mercy, it’s a job, hired hands and he’s grateful that they don’t have a personal agenda. It means that he and Harry will make it through this but still he has to be sure.

Louis gets closer and he tries to call Harry’s name but all that escapes him is another grunt of pain. But it’s enough because suddenly he’s looking into those green eyes. Harry’s hair is matted to his face and there’s blood pouring from his nose and his lip is busted, his mouth is slightly parted and he’s breathing harshly but he’s conscious, he’s … unnerving. Swirling in his eyes is a gritty darkness, a darkness that Louis didn’t expect to see. It’s like he’s switched off, retreated so far inside himself that Louis doesn’t recognise him.

Harry’s such a contradiction, an open book and complete mystery. He has as much steel in his veins as Louis does, perhaps even more. Louis sees the hardness, he sees the grit and yet he worries. He worries in a way that he never does about himself. These pieces of shit may be just doing their job but it’s a poor life decision anyway and after tonight if Louis ever finds them again he vows to break them for ever laying a hand on Harry, for marring his long lean body with bruises and cuts. Anger surges through him and he clenches his fist, feeling scratchy rocks against his skin and slowly he becomes numb to pain just as the solid walls of muscle seemingly decide that their employer’s message has been duly sent and received.

“Hope you pathetic shits got the message or else we’ll be forced to repeat it.”

And because he’s never one to be passive, never one to cower, Louis opens his mouth and the taste of his blood propels him. “Fuck you,” he spits.

“Aww why’d you have to say that?” The man sounds genuinely disappointed and Louis earns one last hard kick that propels him backward, banging his head against a gravestone. Pain explodes behind his eyes and his stomach churns. He falls forward on his hands and retches. The men chuckle and their feet crunch against the gravel as they draw away into the night.

Louis heaves again and gets nothing for his efforts but having the last word was worth it if for no other reason than to show those fuckers that he isn’t easily intimidated or deterred. He leans back against the cold stone letting it take his weight as he slumps. Louis waits until the four pairs of footsteps fade completely and the immediate danger has passed. Everything goes still, too still. Even the trees in the graveyard have stopped their swaying, the chilly wind having died away.

With a pounding head Louis gathers himself and scrambles over graves to get closer to Harry. 

“Harry!” There’s no immediate answer and Louis pushes himself until he’s hovering over Harry’s sprawled form.

“Lou,” Harry blinks looking up into Louis’ face where it’s floating above him. His eyes are no longer impossibly hard, he’s come back from whatever place he’d tucked himself into.

“Harry…” Louis almost collapses onto his prone form but instead he kneels over him and ducks his face into Harry’s neck. He hears and feels Harry’s breath hitch and Louis runs his nose through the sweat on Harry’s skin.

“Lets… not do that again hmm?” Harry mumbles the words as he struggles to sit up. Louis backs away to allow him room.

Louis huffs a laugh and it hurts his ribs. His head also protests and he feels foggy, like he’s being pulled by a tether away from consciousness. They need to get away from here, to get back home. He feels exposed here in the open, surrounded by death and clearly they’re not safe. He opens his mouth to express this to Harry but Harry silences him with a look. Harry cocks his head to the side and Louis hears it. Voices. The slamming of a car door.

Panic spikes through Louis so wild and searing it makes his head pulse and he feels dizzy. He searches Harry’s face with frantic eyes and sees Harry’s eyes wide with fear. Louis deflects his gaze in the direction of the cemetery's entrance. He can’t see anything from this far back but he knows that more shit is headed their way. He flicks his eyes back to Harry who’s kneeling in front of him now, knees digging into the grey gravel. Louis grips his forearms, holding tight.

“Harry go.” The words are whispered and harsh.

“I’m not leaving you.” Harry’s eyes glint in the darkness, hard and determined.

Louis groans, they don’t have time for a battle of wills. They’re hurt and clearly someone knows they’re here. It was Louis’ decision to follow Rusty, it was him that caused them to be here and he knows that they can’t both get away fast enough when whoever’s coming decides to search but if he stays behind perhaps he can convince them that he’s alone, perhaps they’ll be satisfied enough with catching him and give Harry the time he needs to get get clear of this.

“You need to go, there’s no time. I’m not risking you.”

“I don’t care Lou, I’m not leaving you alone.”

“ _I_ care!” Louis winces at the way his voice rises, at the burst of pain in his skull. “Harry do you trust me?” He tries, softer.

“Louis--” Harry’s tone tells Louis that he thinks Louis’ playing dirty. Louis is.

“Do you?” Louis asks, his voice wavering in his desperation.

“Yes.”

“Then you cannot be here. Whatever this is I won’t let them take you, please Harry.” Does he have to beg? He’s already on his knees. Harry still wavers, staring, a stubborn tilt to his chin. “Do this for me, please H,” Louis pleads, the words barely audible.

Harry huffs and lowers his eyes. He’s clearly contemplating whether or not to do what Louis’ asked. There is no time. Louis’ fingers grasp at Harrys coat, willing him silently with everything he has.

The footsteps are getting closer and there’s a steady pain in the base of Louis’ skull that’s threatening to pull him under. Louis shakes his head, one quick movement and prepares to try one more time. As soon as he opens his mouth his words are stolen by Harry’s lips.

It’s what Louis’ wanted, desperately, but what kind of first kiss is this? The only kind they can have. Their mouths press together, hard and rough and it hurts. Genuine affection and attraction has been growing between them and perhaps if they’d had infinite time it would’ve blossomed slowly, steadily maturing like fine wine, sweet and pure. Louis has felt it rising for some time now but that’s not them and slow and leisurely isn’t their world. It’s chaotic and off balance. It’s brash and dangerous. So Louis grabs Harry by the collar of his black coat and kisses him harder. He pours everything into it and the pain is far beyond physical as bruised and swollen lips collide. The pain is set deep because Louis doesn’t know if this is going to be the only one, if this is all they’ll get. In this moment, what was supposed to be a beginning feels so much like an end.

They pull apart and Harrys eyes are wide, flashing in the dark like a cat’s.

“Go,” Louis tries again, saying it for what feels like the hundredth time.

Finally, this time Harry relents. Louis sags with relief as Harry scrambles to his feet “I will find you,” Harry whispers. The words are said with so much conviction that Louis feels buoyed by them. A calmness wraps around him as he watches Harry’s retreat.

Harry limps backward, face stoic, eyes hard before he turns. His black trench coat allows him to be swallowed up into the night far quicker than he otherwise would’ve been.

Louis breathes and closes his eyes. He wants so badly to pass out, to slip from consciousness and let whatever is about to happen happen but he fights it. He needs as much information as he can get, needs to know what this is. Louis tries but he can’t hold on. Shiny patented leather shoes are the last thing he sees before everything goes dark. 


	8. Allies In The Dark

Louis dreams. The images percolate in his mind, twisting into impossible shapes as they fade in and out. Just when he thinks he may be able to hold on to the tendrils of them they shift and leave him adrift, confused. Louis tries to break the surface of them, to make sense of them but he can’t. He’s at their mercy. They float to him in the midst of his pain. The pounding in his head shattering them like planes of glass.

Someone’s poking at him, calling his name, prodding bruised ribs and something stings fiercely as it swipes across scrapes and cuts. His eyelids are forced open one at a time but it’s all a blur. Muffled voices sound out but it’s only a buzzing to Louis. Not even the knowledge that he’s not alone, that he may not be safe is enough to pull him completely back to wakefulness and he accepts his fate with weary resignation.

This time when he dreams it coalesces and he sees Martin. Louis’ sitting in plush seats, deep red and velvety soft and hovering in front and above him on a giant movie screen is an image of Martin. Here Martin’s happy, smiling wide and bright, white teeth sparkling, blond hair swept off his forehead. Here he rules the screen the way he was meant to do, his image bigger than Louis’ ever seen it. And Louis watches as the screen flickers and Martin smiles even brighter. 

Louis watches, detached, unsure, until a hand slips into his, fingers slotting together, the cool metal of a ring sliding against his skin and he holds tight. Brown hair tickles his jaw as a head leans against his shoulder and Louis breathes. It smells like cigarette smoke and aftershave and candy. Bitter, spicy, sweet. It smells like home and he turns into it, tries to hold onto it but it’s gone and now when he looks up cold and alone Harry is waving to him from the screen where he stands next to Martin trapped in celluloid. 

They laugh together and Louis’ eyes narrow and he thinks he should be feeling something like jealousy or perhaps fear but he feels warm because Harry’s so big up there on the screen and he’s so beautiful, his eyes, they’re shining out, snaring Louis. Martin laughs, charmed by Harry the way Louis is and Martin looks to Louis, mischief alight in his pale blue eyes. Martin seems pleased and he nods to Louis and Louis nods back because he doesn’t know what else to do and at once he’s surrounded again by that singular smell that means Harry is near, that means he’s home. Harry’s hand is back in his and the screen is blank and Louis wants to say something but he can’t because he doesn’t really understand what’s happening and it must be a dream but it feels real but everything is foggy so perhaps not so real after all. 

Then everything becomes distorted, even as that singular scent lingers, left behind in the fog. Louis reaches out trying to wrap himself in the comfort of it, tries to piece the vision of Harry, the feel of him, back together again but it eludes him and he’s distressed without it. It stays right at the edge of his fingertips, he can feel it but his fingers can’t make purchase and the images never become fully formed again, they remain pictures imprinted on mist.

When Louis finally wakes, this time with certainty, the room he’s in is bathed in harsh light. It’s too much after the dim, moody lighting of his dreams. He screws his eyes shut, squeezing his lids tightly together as he breathes through the persistent pounding in his head. It feels like he’s been run over by a car and the driver’s left him there sprawled on the pavement. The curtain of his dreams hang heavy around him and Louis shakes himself free, pulling it back so that he can be as alert as possible. He touches a hand to his forehead where the skin is too tight and feels a bandage covering a cut just under his hairline. 

He sits up fully, biting back a groan at the aches that slam into him when he does. He’s managed to acquire more cuts and bruises than he’s had in years. Louis’ used to winning fights but it seems that the odds are continuously stacked against him this time around. At the rate he’s going he won’t be surprised if he actually breaks a bone before it’s all over.

Louis puts a hand to his side and twists his head, looking around. He huffs a humourless laugh when he realises where he is. The bars taking up one side of the room and the familiar washed out brick of the police station on the other side of them are major clues as to his whereabouts. Is this Jones’ doing? If so then just how much shit is he really in?

He stands and sways on his feet, gripping the small sink attached to the far wall of the narrow cell to steady himself. Looking up he sees his face in the mirror and he wishes he hadn’t. There’s a nasty bruise forming under the stubble on his jaw. It’s dark and angry and perfectly complements the scrapes across his cheekbone. Those must be from when he’d fallen face first into the gravel of the cemetery. But it’s his eye that really steals the show. His right eye is black and swollen, the skin around it puffy. There’s a cut on his brow and Louis prods gingerly at it wincing and pulling back as soon as he makes contact. He pulls up his shirt and prods around more, against his better judgement cataloguing the various shapes and sizes of the bruises spreading there. Sighing, he closes his eyes and rests both hands on the edge of the sink. As soon as he puts his weight on his arms his shoulder smarts, sharp and stinging and Louis bites back a yelp. It’s fucking ridiculous and Louis huffs annoyed as he straightens to rub a hand at the offending left shoulder.

Injured or not when he gets his hands on Jones he’s going to wring his neck. He’s already in a jail cell so it’s not as if they’ll have far to take him after. But no, he won’t because he can’t afford to be stuck in here for longer than he already has been. Judging by the light streaming through the high barred window, night has already passed. Harry must be beside himself with worry and Louis needs to get back to him. That means he has to focus, collect himself and be prepared to face whatever this is. The sooner he figures out why he was picked up, the sooner he can extricate himself from this newest in the line of shitty situations and get back to Harry so that they can convalesce and fret over their respective states of injury. Louis has to admit that he’s quite looking forward to that.

“Sleep well?”

So much for focus, he hadn’t even heard the footsteps approach his cell. He groans at the intrusion as keys rattle against metal bars and clang loudly in the lock. The sound ricochets around his sensitive brain, and he scowls as the cell door is pulled opened, metal screeching.

Louis looks from the ground up at his unwanted visitor. He recognises the same patented leather shoes that had crowded his eye line last night before he’d passed out and his eyes land on a face that is definitely not Jones’. He looks familiar to Louis but for the moment he can’t place the man in front of him. Louis wills his brain to stop trying to escape his skull for a minute so that he can think.

“A local drunk hanging around the area said he saw two men following a third into the cemetery last night,” The man says, voice even and eyes searching.

“No--,” hearing how he’s too quick and eager Louis pauses for a breath and tries again, “--well he was probably drunk and definitely wrong.”

The blue eyes looking back at him seem unconvinced and there’s a hint of a smirk playing at the thin lips. Yet, the man doesn’t seem derisive or antagonistic. If anything his expression is affable, borderline friendly as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his pin striped trousers. “I thought so, that’s why I told him he was mistaken. He understood.”

Louis catches the conspiratorial tone and frowns, choosing to ignore it. “Was he the only one you saw? Didn’t happen to see four human brick walls skulking about?”

“Ah, no,” the man pushes at his glasses in a show of thinking. “But I’ll keep my eyes out.” Louis scoffs as the man gestures to his injuries. “I’m guessing they’re responsible for your current state?”

“Yea,” Louis levels him with an unimpressed look. “Would’ve been nice if you’d gotten there before I had my face rearranged.”

“Oh please, you’re so pretty, I’m hardly noticing a few bruises.” It’s said with a laugh and Louis’ eyebrows shoot up. “What? you think I don’t know a good looking man when I see one? Or am I not allowed to acknowledge it?” There’s laughter in the voice and an irish lilt to his accent that Louis’ only now picking up on.

Louis’ frown is layers deep and he doesn’t know how to respond which is uncharacteristic at best, so he stays silent, eyeing up the man in front of him.

“Anyway, four against one, lucky you’re still in one piece.”

Louis sits up fully regarding the man in his well tailored navy suit as he looks at Louis with burgeoning amusement. “What is this? Do I know you?”

“I’ve always been more of a behind the desk kind of guy.” The man quirks an eyebrow and the name Horan pops into Louis’ fuzzy brain. Police Chief Niall Horan.

“Chief.”

Horan tips his head in acknowledgment, blond hair staying stubbornly in place as he does. Louis doesn’t know much about him but he’s a newish hire to this neck of the woods and Louis remembers seeing his portrait in one of the newspapers he gets delivered everyday.

“Why am I here?” He’d been arrested and Horan was the one behind it not Jones. Louis can’t tell if this is good or very bad. Horan almost seems friendly but Louis isn’t going to take comfort in that.

At the question there’s a deep sigh from the Chief and he leans his body against the opposite wall of the cell. “Tomlinson, this case you’re working is trouble. It’s red hot and burning a path through this department. I had you arrested so I could talk to you without suspicion.”

“Seems excessive.”

“Necessary.”

Louis leans back on the thin cot and crosses his ankles. He’s getting a feel for this situation and he doesn’t think Horan is going to be adversarial. Still he’s City PD and Louis’ determined to be cautious.

“I’ve always liked you Tomlinson.”

Louis snorts.

The corner of Horan’s lip twitches upward but he contains his smile. “I know more about you than you think.”

“Do you now…”

“I know you’re a private detective who supposedly spends all his time trailing cheating spouses. I also know that’s just to keep the lights on in that little place you bought a few years ago.” Horan levels Louis with a look that almost dares him to contradict and knows that he can’t. “I know you spend a lot of your time doing the work the police should actually be doing and getting nothing but grief for your efforts. I know you’re a thorn in the side of this department because you don’t play by the rules and you give no fucks about the consequences … although something tells me you’ve recently found some fucks to give.”

Louis looks up into Horan’s clear blue eyes. Horan knows there was someone with Louis last night, more than that, Louis’ convinced the chief knows it was Harry. Louis frowns. It must be permanently etched onto his face by now, outlined in the downturn of his lips and the furrow of his brow.

“You may not know it,” Horan continues, “But since I transferred here I’ve covered for a lot of your more interesting exploits into justice when I could because people like you are rare in this city.”

At this Louis is taken aback. It explains so much and so little at the same time. He notes that for the past year or so his interactions with City PD had been fewer and less brash than they had been in the past. He’d figured they’d just gotten tired of him, bored with his antics. He’d never imagined that someone inside this hellhole had been smoothing things over and un-ruffling feathers in the way that only someone higher up the chain of command can.

Is Louis supposed to thank him? Louis only has Horan’s word to go on but still it doesn’t seem like gratitude is what he’s after. If it was, then there were a lot of different ways to seek it out other than having him arrested. 

“Is this what you hauled me in here to talk about?”

Horan sighs, deep and long. He suddenly seems tired, exhausted in a way that’s permanent. “I got into law enforcement because I was naive enough to think I could make a difference but somedays I can’t tell the difference between the criminals I go after and the officers and officials I work with everyday.”

Louis grunts his understanding. The reason Horan can hardly tell the difference is because more often than not they were one and the same.

“I’ve taken over the Martin Kincaid case from Jones.”

That get’s Louis’ attention. Is Horan really one of the good ones? It’s looking that way.

“High profile case, wasn’t difficult to pry him off it but boy did he cling tight. If I didn’t know better I’d think he’s dedicated to his job or at least after the recognition a solve like this can bring him. Lucky for me, I’m no longer the naive boy I was when I started my career.”

“Why’d you take over?” Louis’ curiosity is almost tangible. He doesn’t attempt to hide it.

“Jones is in deep with some nasty people. Corruption is eating it’s way through this department, every damn department like some kind of invisible poison and I’m goddamned sick of it.” Horan almost spits the last words out as if he can taste the poison, as if the air itself is laced with it and it’s found it’s way into his lungs. He’s not telling Louis anything he doesn’t know but it’s the first time an officer has actually admitted any such thing to him. 

Horan shifts against the wall he’s leaning on and regards Louis with serious eyes. He seems to be thinking something through and Louis lets him, keeping eye contact, holding himself still and confident. Horan dips his head for a moment and takes a breath. “It’s my understanding that Jones called you in to the crime scene when it was first discovered. I believe he did that because he took a gamble on your reputation, on your doggedness.”

“But why?” Louis’ tired of being on the back foot when it comes to Jones’ motivations. He and Harry had asked the same question but now perhaps he can finally have an answer.

“I think he’s gotten in too deep, found himself in trouble and needed a way out. I think he was hoping by setting you on the trail you would take the person responsible for this mess out of the equation. If you got killed in the process, fine, as long as nothing comes back to him.”

So Harry had been right. Jones’ played him. It was a gamble but then Jones’ had no idea of the connection Louis had with Martin. If he had, he wouldn’t have called Louis to that scene. He would’ve known that as soon as Louis found out about Martin’s death he would’ve gone poking his head in regardless. There was no way he could’ve left it alone. Regardless of how he got involved, Louis’ involvement was always going to be a sure thing.

“This person you’re going after Tomlinson, he’s got a lot of people in his pocket, he knows where to squeeze, to press, the pressure points that even good people can’t ignore. Even my hands are tied. I can’t go after him. He’s going to get away with this and everything else he’s done.” Horan stares into him, blue eyes steady. “There’s nothing I can do,” he says with meaning.

Louis holds the gaze. “But I can…”

“But you can,” Horan says. It’s quiet for a moment in the cell and Louis prods at his bruised side as he thinks. Horan’s still watching him, eyes assessing and Louis can’t help but wonder what he sees. Horan sighs and his shoulders sag a little succumbing just a bit to the weight he’s carrying around with him. “We find ourselves in the precarious and unlikely situation where you, Jones and I all want the same thing.”

Louis knows he’s right but he can’t help the way his upper lip curls in disgust. To be aligned with Jones no matter how incidental is not something that he cares for. But he knows it’s true.

“I get the feeling that this goes beyond your sense of justice,” Horan continues and Louis sets his jaw, feeling himself on edge. “I don’t know your motivations but it seems personal. I have no qualms with that.” Horan waves a hand in front of himself in a dismissive gesture. Louis relaxes if only marginally. “Mine, mine are perhaps … idealistic, perhaps a bit of left over naivety.” He rakes a hand through perfectly set blond hair that appears darker from the product that’s been combed through it.

Louis feels that familiar thrumming in his veins as he listens to Horan’s words. That sensation that means he’s getting closer to a target. He and Harry have been chasing shadows in the dark, unsure of which moves to make next but right now Louis thinks that the answer they’ve been searching for is right within his reach. But first, first he needs to know that if he does this thing being asked of him that he and Harry will be covered. He thinks for moment on how to phrase the question, abandons his attempts and thinks some more. All through it Horan waits patiently.

“I need two things,” Louis finally says.

“I’m listening.” Horan leans forward, the hopefulness threatening to show on his face.

“First, I said I was alone last night and I meant it but I want, no, I need assurances that I’ll be covered if anything goes south and it most definitely will. Also, I need to know that anyone I… care about won’t get into the crossfire.”

Horan Hums thoughtfully, his face a serious mask. After a beat of silence he speaks. “If the person who was definitely not with you last night is who I think it is you might want to keep him clear of this one. Jones has it out for him and my influence only goes so far, the less people we involve in this, the better.”

Louis exhales, tries to keep his composure, tries not to let his shoulders sag. It’s the best he’ll get, he knows that and this entire thing is delicate enough. After last night his desire to keep Harry safe, to keep them both safe is paramount to anything else. He’ll take whatever protection the Chief can offer, no matter how inadequate.

“Okay, I need one more thing.”

“Ask.”

“A name.”

Horan’s eyes go hard and his nostrils flare as a name slips out from behind his teeth, rolling over his tongue with obvious disgust and more than a hint of fear.


	9. The Smoking Gun

Louis walks down his tree lined street and the way the sunlight filters through the leaves makes him think that the city is attempting to be beautiful. It’s casting on a veneer or innocence, of peace. Louis scoffs as he finds himself charmed despite his best efforts. He kicks a ball back towards a couple of kids playing in the shade.

“Thanks mister,” the oldest one says with a toothy grin.

Louis smiles back at him and nods. Despite his pain he feels lighter. He has a name now, a concrete direction.

He’ll tell Harry everything then give them a few days to heal and think. It’s all too much right now and all he wants is a drink, a smoke and to feel Harry’s lips against his again. Louis wants to savour it this time, to take it from one, to several, to something more. More than that though, he needs to see Harry, to know for sure that he’s safe, that he’s not too badly hurt.

The anticipation of seeing Harry again after the way they were separated last night is almost palpable. It thrums through Louis’ veins and he walks faster, ignoring the soreness and the twinges of pain as he takes the steps to his front door two at a time.

As soon as his fingers touch the door knob, Louis knows that something is wrong. It isn’t locked, isn’t even closed all the way. He pushes against the wood of the door and it swings silently open.

Louis’ heart leaps into his throat as he steps into the entranceway. All senses on high alert, his eyes dart to the closed door of the living space to his right before settling on the open doorway of his office straight ahead. What he sees turns his blood to ice.

A man stands, feet planted firmly, pistol gripped in his outstretched arm. Louis’ heart slams into his chest. He can’t see Harry but he must be in there, trapped, hurt, he might be … Louis stops. That’s not where his thoughts need to go.

There’s no way he can take the necessary steps to bridge the space between where he’s standing and his office without the intruder being alerted to his presence. He won’t have the element of surprise but he needs to _do_ something.

“Tomlinson get in here and join your partner.” The man speaks, addressing Louis without even turning his head.

Louis closes his eyes briefly and then he moves. He’s cautious, doesn’t want to make any sudden movements that could get Harry killed because he has to believe that Harry is still … that he isn’t.…

The man takes a few steps back as Louis enters the room. He draws his gun arm closer to his body, taking away any chance Louis may have had at knocking it out his hand. Louis doesn’t even think of it. His eyes are too busy frantically trying to locate Harry in the small space. He finds him and he’s … he’s still alive. Tears prickle hotly and it’s all Louis can do not to cry out from the relief.

Louis makes his way over in two quick strides, momentarily forgetting the immediate danger in favour of looking Harry over. He’s crumpled in the corner of the room, under the window. There’s blood on his face from a nasty gash on his forehead, it’s fresh, still bleeding, sticky red plastering his hair to the side of his face. It’s probably from being pistol-whipped and he’s holding his left arm close to himself like a bird with an injured wing. Louis feels his blood lose it’s icy core, it’s turning to fire. He resists the urge to reach down and touch Harry’s pale skin, so much paler than usual making the nasty black eye and the busted lip from last night appear even more gruesome. Louis works his jaw, fighting back his emotions. How much more violence is Harry going to be subjected to because of him and this case, because of this fucking city?

Louis closes his eyes briefly on a deep inhale and then the fire ignites and Louis is left with a white hot anger. His vision clouds with it and he wants to take apart everyone who’s ever dared to lay a hand on Harry starting with the fucker right in front of him. Louis wants to tear him to pieces for breaking the sort of peace they have built inside these walls, for invading their territory. First, he has to move.

With one more look at Harry, Louis begins to inch his way sideways. His desk is right there and if he can just get to the drawer, get to the revolver he keeps tucked into its case, perhaps he can even the scales. He’s never made a habit of walking around with the weapon. He doesn’t like the way it feels, the weight of it, the ease of it. The way things have been going lately though, perhaps it’s time to change that. After all, there’s no part of his innocence left to preserve.

“Don’t fucking move.”

The man tries to make his voice menacing but Louis sees. He sees the way his hand tremble around the handle of the pistol, he sees the way his stance wavers. He also sees the slicked back hair and the reptilian face and in it recognises the man from the alleyways who’d tried to stab him. He’d failed in his task then and Louis’ determined to ensure his failure this time too.

“I _said_ don’t fucking move!” Beads of sweat are making their way down the man’s forehead and he wipes the shirtsleeve of his free hand across it.

Louis calculates the risk and decides that he likes the odds. “I think you’ll find I’m not the best at following orders.”

The man’s eyes narrow and they dart between Harry and Louis trying to keep them both in his focus even as Louis continues to put space between them. It doesn’t seem to Louis like this guy really wants to kill anyone regardless of what his purpose for being here actually is.

“Don’t make me shoot you Tomlinson.”

Louis’ successfully drawn the attacker’s attention away from Harry, it’s now  trained solely on him, the way he wants it. As he takes the last step that brings him behind and to the side of his desk he’s grateful that the man appealed to his sense of self-preservation rather than threatening Harry. If he’d really wanted Louis to listen that’s what he would’ve done instead. It would’ve stopped Louis in his tracks, put them both at their intruder’s mercy. Louis almost laughs even as his pulse roars. This man has no idea just how much Harry means to Louis. He has no idea that Louis will do anything to protect Harry, that he will do anything to ensure they both live.

His left hand gropes at the shelf behind him and he keeps his face still as his fingers curl around the heavy glass ashtray that had been his goal. He won’t be able to reach his gun in time but at least this is something.

One glance at Harry and Louis sees the calculating look in his eyes, he’s assessing, pushing through his obvious pain, plotting. Louis wills him to meet his eyes and Harry does for a fleeting moment. Louis tries to silently warn him off of whatever he’s thinking. He doesn’t want Harry to startle their attacker and end up more hurt than he already is.

Seeing Louis’ intense gaze, the man’s brow furrows and he pivots his upper body, turning his focus briefly back to Harry in confusion as if just remembering that he’s even there.

In a split second Louis and Harry move.

Louis takes quick but careful aim and launches the ashtray at the man who takes the blow between his shoulder blades. He grunts and loosens his grip on the pistol at the same time that Harry lunges from his crumpled position and makes a grab for it. He winces and blows air hard through his mouth as he lands on his side with his prize.

Louis leaps over his desk and onto the man’s back bringing them both down to the floor in a crashing heap. He thinks he hears Harry calling his name but he can’t be sure. His blood is rushing too loudly and when the man tries to fight him off Louis is almost pleased. He flails in the cramped space but this is where Louis excels, that scrappiness that Liam acknowledged makes itself known. Louis adds even more bruises to his already banged up body, most notably on his knuckles as they push against bone with surprising force for someone as slight as his, with wrists as delicate as his seem.

His body is screaming at him, in no condition to keep this up and again he hears Harry’s voice calling to him. With reluctance Louis relents. He feels Harry nudging him and looks up to see him holding out the pair of handcuffs that Louis keeps in his desk drawer. Louis takes them with a nod.

The man groans as Louis secures his wrists but he doesn’t fight it. Louis drags him to his feet with a rough hand around his shoulder and deposits him without grace onto a chair. He takes the gun from Harry’s fingers, sits behind his desk and places it in front of him. Harry closes the office door and slumps into his seat.

It’s silent for a moment, their harsh breathing the only noise in the room. The adrenaline is draining out of them now and Louis has a hard time staying still, a hard time keeping his hands off the gleaming black pistol.

“You good with getting the drop on an injured party?” Louis asks, needing to break the silence. He indicates Harry where he’s sitting in his chair, watchful and so worse for wear.

“There’s nothing about me that’s good.” The answer is succinct and said with a kind of resignation that gives Louis pause in his anger.

“You got a name?” Louis asks.

“Marcus Rainer.”

Louis doesn’t know the name and there’s no recognition in Harry’s eyes either. They sit in strained silence for a few moments until Rainer coughs, fidgeting in his seat.

“If you’re gonna kill me, just do it. What are you waiting for?” Rainer says it with a wobbly confidence, an unconvincing attempt. He tilts his chin up and looks down at Louis but he can’t quite muster the stubborn indifference required to intimidate.

“Nobody’s killing anyone,” Harry says quietly, eyeing Louis rather than Rainer.

“Even after I tried to kill you in that alley?” Rainer addresses the question to Louis, voice wavering.

“You’re clearly not very good at it judging by the results.” Louis drawls the words, taking more than his usual time over them. He’s assessing the man in front of him and the more he sees, the more he’s convinced that the blade that sliced his coat had been meant to miss.

“Never really have been. Don’t quite have the stomach for it. Funny in this line of work.” Rainer confesses. He slumps and laughs in a way that shows there’s nothing funny at all.

“Still,” Harry says, “what happened to the warning we got just last night?”

“That was before you decided to go to the police.”

“You act as if I had a choice,” Louis says.

“Doesn’t matter to him. Nothing matters to him.” Rainer takes a breath, shifting against his restraints. “The piece of shit that led you to Elsner, he was watching. Saw you get taken away, saw this one leave you there.” Rainer juts his chin in Harry’s direction with his last words.

Harry winces at the accusation. He tries to hide it but Louis sees guilt laced across his blood soaked face. Louis wants to say something, to assure Harry that there is no guilt to feel but the moment passes and Marcus Rainer talks on.

“So I had to finish the job. Take him out, wait for you, do the same.

“But you didn’t.” Louis keeps his voice steady, or tries to but that all encompassing fear he’d felt in the graveyard last night ignites in his gut again. Harry is supposed to be dead. If this Marcus Rainer had had the stomach for this killing thing, Louis would’ve come home to Harry’s lifeless body, blood spilled across creaky hardwood, scuffed tile and old carpet. For one awful second Louis lets himself imagine it. He lets himself see it in all it’s detail. What could have been, what almost was. Those green eyes devoid of their light, their intensity, their depth.

Louis pushes down the rising panic, fights it with a great difficulty. Harry is okay, he’s here, he’s sitting right there in his favourite chair. _God, I could’ve lost him, I almost …_ Louis swallows, his throat almost seizing shut. His mouth is dry and his hands are clammy. He tells himself that he’s in control. Harry is okay and he’s in control. He puts his shaking hands in his lap under the desk to hide them and makes a valiant effort to keep his face a cool mask of confident indifference. He has no idea if he actually manages it.

His insides continue to roll and he can’t even dredge up any rage. It’s only the fear. It’s fear and strong relief and he’s threatening to buckle under the weight of it, to slide from his chair to his knees. Louis knows now that this isn’t going to stop. The knowledge settles with a heavy clang, ringing inside him with it’s certainty. Rainer’s employer’s got a taste for him, for the both of them, - for their defiance, their stubbornness - and he will not stop sending people after them. Horan was right. Louis can end this, he has to.

“Fuck him. Fuck him!”

Rainer’s outburst startles Louis and Harry both and Louis sees the cracks in the man, clear and sure. Rainer’s loyalty has gotten him here, bound and out of options. Louis thinks with a little prodding he can finally get some the answers he’s been looking for.

Rainer looks at a chip in the tile as he continues on. “Bastards like him only want power. They don’t care who they crush, they don’t-- I fucking hate him.”

Louis sees his opening. “It looks like we have something in common Marcus.”

Rainer lifts his eyes to Louis’ and regards him silently for a moment. “I’m done aren’t I?”

“Yea you are,” Louis agrees. “Tell me what you know about Martin Kincaid and Elliot Elsner. Consider it your one good deed.”

Rainer scoffs and hangs his head, eyes back to that chipped tile. “One good deed,” he murmurs seemingly to himself. Louis and Harry share a glance and then they wait. The silence lasts for a full minute before Rainer begins to talk.

“Simon, head of SyCorp, my boss and the meanest motherfucker in this goddamned city.”

Louis registers the surprise on Harry’s face even as his own remains a blank mask. That’s the name Horan had practically growled at him inside the small cell. It’s a confirmation though. It settles a weight further in his chest. Louis’ heard of him. Everyone in the city has heard of him. He has money and influence everywhere, directing it all from the gleaming tower downtown or his mansion on the outskirts of the smog and grime that fills the city proper. He’s a bastard but Louis had no idea that he has the kind of influence that would make the Police Chief have to work to hide his fear. It still leaves Louis with questions. Questions like why. Why was Martin dead.

“The boss, he funds a lot of the pictures coming out of the movie district. He’s got a controlling interest in Full Stop where Martin was the top star. He decided to visit the set on a whim, to check on his investment he’d said. That’s where he met him. That’s where he met Martin. That’s where it started.”

Louis holds his breath. Brow furrowed, he almost wants Rainer to shut up because he sees where this is going. Martin with his ambition, his expensive tastes. To have the attention of a man like Simon would be a temptation Martin would never resist. It would seem to good to be true, too good to pass up.

Louis opens his mouth, swallowing around the bile threatening to rise. “They were lovers.” His voice is raspy, tired and it isn’t a question.

Both sets of eyes in the room lift to his. Rainer nods and quickly looks back down but Harry holds his gaze, a sadness etched around the corners of his eyes.

“Nobody except his inner circle knows about the boss’ … tastes. I only know because he got careless once and I stumbled across him and one of his … conquests. It was either do away with me or bring me closer. Honestly at this point I almost wish…” Rainer trails off, taking a shaky breath and Louis is struck with a gratitude that it had been Rainer in that alleyway the day of his attack.

“For a while everything was fine. Martin, he strutted around like he owned the place. He threw around that charisma, everyone liked him, the bastard. I almost wish I could hate him, call him an entitled asshole or a spoiled brat but he wasn’t. He was just … so out of his depth and didn’t know it. He thought he was being courted. He didn’t know he was being _owned.”_

Louis’ mind is whirling and for a brief moment it lands on Liam Payne and what he’d told him. “Did your boss give Martin a security detail?”

Rainer scoffs and mumbles something under his breath that no one catches. He clears his throat and his eyes tighten, wrinkles spreading out like spider webs from the corners. “Those men, they started out as security and Martin loved it, made him feel valued, as if the boss so cared about his well being. But they were always just about Simon protecting his property. When it ended they became a way to intimidate, keep tabs, scare him.

“Martin was woefully naive. He thought once he called it quits that would be the end of it. He had no idea what he’d gotten into, who he’d tangled himself up with. The boss, he let Martin go at first. Let him walk right out after he’d given his little speech about how he didn’t want to be treated like an object, how he wanted more, deserved more. He let Martin walk right out and thats when I knew, I knew that Martin was done for.”

Rainer hangs his head and Louis doesn’t know if it’s guilt, or pity or sadness in the line of Rainer’s brow but something heavy lingers there on his face and Louis feels an unpleasant twisting deep in his gut. He remembers Martin’s _little speeches_ and for a moment he misses Martin’s fire, his passion. It strikes Louis like a blow that he’ll never see it again, that no one will ever see that side of Martin again.

“Do you know that the boss, he collects insects? He has a whole collection. Beetles, butterflies. It aint because he has an interest in animals or science. I heard him once. It’s because he thinks they’re beautiful. Beautiful when they’re stuck with pins, frozen in place, dead, by his hand and put on display. The beauty is in the possession and once he had Martin there was no way he would ever have let him ago until he was good and ready to. Martin hadn’t realised. He hadn’t stood a chance. The poor bastard.”

Louis’ heart is racing and he knows his breathing is elevated. His fingers grip the edges of his seat, digging into the wood. He looks at Harry and sees his face set in hard lines, a canvas for the drying blood he hasn’t bothered to wipe away. The tension in the room is thick as Marcus Rainer constructs an image of the enemy. Louis’ body is taut, pulled tight as he gets a glimpse of the person who’d gotten their claws into Martin.

_I think I might be in trouble._

Pieces of Martin’s letter float back to Louis, the ashes of it spilled from the ashtray when he’d launched it at Rainer. Louis thinks he can see bits of it drifting across the room, caught in the rays of light filtering through half closed blinds.

_It’s been so long that it doesn’t even feel right asking for your help but I think I might need it._

“Martin, he made a fatal mistake. He fell in love.

“I was tailing him, me and a couple of others, reporting back to the boss what we’d seen, heard.” Rainer huffs, “I’m scum I know I am, I fucking know who I am but goddammit I’m not like Simon, I… I’m not him.

“I saw him first you know. I saw Martin with Elsner before the other guys did. God, Martin had a smile didn’t he?” Rainer asks the question to the chipped tile and Louis swallows a lump in his throat. “Those stupid bastards were happy sneaking around at Elsner’s place, at Martin’s house, in the back alleys in the movie district, wherever they could and … I tried … I don’t even know why but I tried to keep it away from the boss. I-- I tried to warn Martin--” Rainer shakes his head. “I tried…. In the end they took to hiding out at that shitty club. Thought they’d be safe there, that nobody would know, that no one would expect someone like Martin to be there. They had no idea. The boss, he’s everywhere.

“The guys with me, oh they thought Martin and his male lover were disgusting, part of the homosexual plague the papers are always on about. They ran right to the boss to spill, not knowing that he’s fucking bent too. But I guess it wouldn’t have made a difference anyway because he’s above everyone else. Because he’s untouchable. It’s not gay when he does it, it’s not …” Rainer runs out of steam, his rising voice cutting off abruptly and he deflates.

Rainer shifts in his seat, pulling on his binds as if just to test them, as if just to see if they really are there. “He knew, of course he knew that I’d tried to warn Martin but he acted like he had no idea until I failed at getting rid of you. Then the ultimatum came, it was either you two or me. This was my last chance.”

Silence engulfs them all then, rising thickly, replacing the air in the room.

“Elliot Elsner,” Rainer says suddenly and Louis startles. “He was the first to go. The boss had someone take care of him. Someone who actually does have the stomach for this kind of thing.”

“And Martin?” Louis is surprised by the roughness of his own voice, by the way that it cracks like he hasn’t used it in days instead of minutes. He almost wants to take the words back even though this is the question he’s wanted an answer to from the very beginning.

Rainer exhales and Harry leans forward, hands clasped and eyes sharp. Louis holds his breath. “Martin, the boss did that one himself. Just walked into his house, right into that study and shot him, once. Once.”

Louis squeezes his eyes shut. He’d known it. Somehow he had. Louis had known that Simon wouldn’t have left Martin up to anyone else. It had been personal enough to get his hands dirty. Still, the air whooshes out of Louis’ lungs like he’s been punched in the gut. He puts a hand to his middle to make sure that all the bits are still inside him, to make sure that he hasn’t been turned inside out. Louis blinks once, twice and then a few more times to clear the sting he feels in his eyes and he looks at Harry, looks at him just to make sure that he’s still there, still alive, breathing.

_I thought I was free … There are things I want to say … we should talk about everything._

Louis’ hands curl into fists and despite his battered body he wants to hit something. This man, this … _thing_ that had stolen Martin’s life now has him and Harry both in his sights and the reality of it makes Louis’ skin crawl. A person capable of killing in cold blood because the object of his obsession no longer wanted to be possessed. This is what they were dealing with, this is what the search for Martin’s killer had brought to their doorstep.

“That’s the gun he did it with.”

Louis’ eyes flick down to the gun on his desk and he hears Harry’s surprised intake of breath, feels the way he has to swallow his own pained groan. The gun taunts him now and Louis’ fingers itch to reach for the cold metal that had been levelled at Harry, that had been pointed at him too. For one irrational moment Louis wants to hold the last thing Martin had seen before that bastard took everything away from him.

Louis’ stomach lurches unpleasantly and he clenches his teeth, fuses them in a bid to hold himself together. There’s too much happening. It’s coming at him now from all sides. The puzzle pieces they need to end this, the conversation with Chief Horan, the danger of letting Simon linger in the darkness and around it all, the red, red blood marring the side of Harry’s beautiful face.

“How’d you get this?” The question comes from Harry, spoken through gritted teeth.

“He gave it to me.” Rainer says, swinging his head to give Harry a sideways glance. “Perhaps he thought it would be poetic. Kill the bastards on his trail with the same gun that started it all.”

“Why not take it to the police?” Harry winces as soon as the words leave his lips, probably realising how ridiculous they are.

Rainer apparently agrees as he sneers, “You must be as naive as you look. Fucking hell.”

Harry slumps back in his chair and Louis swears he hears him huff. Any other time he might’ve smiled, might’ve seen the humour in Harry’s put upon expression but all he can see is blood and matted hair. Martin’s lifeless face superimposed over Harry’s pale one. Louis feels sick.

“I bet you think you can take him on,” Rainer taunts.

Louis looks up and sees Rainer’s eyes trained on him. Louis pinches the bridge of his nose. Rainer’s words sound like a challenge. It’s as if he’s saying, _I dare you._

But then Louis looks into Rainer’s eyes, really looks and he sees the fear and realises no it’s not a challenge, it’s a plea. He’s not saying _I dare you,_ he’s saying, _if you dare,_ he’s saying, _please._

Without another word Louis picks up the telephone that’s sitting neglected on the corner of his desk. He calls a number and slips the receiver back in place after a short and terse conversation.

“You said to call if I needed … yes at my place.”

Rainer and Harry’s are wearing matching frowns of confusion but Louis is only addressing Harry when he says, “Chief Horan is on his way.”

The frown etches itself even deeper into Harry’s face but before Louis can say more Rainer laughs bitterly. “The police can’t do shit about this, can’t do shit about _him._ ”

“They aren’t for him, they’re coming for you,” Louis says tiredly. There’s an exhaustion pulling at him and he needs aspirin, something to take the edge off the pain that’s starting to throb through him again.

Rainer humphs but stays otherwise silent, slouching further into his chair.

 

*** *** ***

 

After the door closes behind Rainer and Chief Horan, Louis takes a moment to press his back against the worn wood. He closes his eyes and tips his head back and just breathes. In and out to calm his fraying nerves. The silence is a welcome one and he lets it cloak him, telling himself that at least for right now, they are safe. But not for long. Horan’s parting words drift around him, adding to his already full thoughts. There’s no more room and his head throbs but still, they carve a space.

_“He’s in his office downtown.”_

_“Chief--”_

_“You know this won’t stop. He’s polluting this city even more than it already is. He’ll come for you, the both of you.”_

_Horan’s eyes are tired and his face is lined. Louis hears all the words that the Police Chief isn’t saying._

_He’s saying it’s Sunday. It’s quiet. There’s hardly anyone about. You can end this Tomlinson. You can end this._

Louis clenches his fists tight then relaxes and stretches his fingers, shakes his shoulders and opens his eyes. Harry is waiting tucked away in the tiny bathroom, keeping out of sight, not that it seems to matter. Horan knows. Louis pushes away from the wood and makes his way across his threadbare carpet to the small space. He twists the knob and his eyes meet Harry’s in the smudged mirror hanging over the sink.

“Harry,” he says quietly and Harry closes his eyes, leaning back as Louis crowds behind him for just a moment.

Louis turns Harry gently, gestures for him to sit on the edge of the tub and begins removing the traces of Harry’s encounter with Rainer.

As Louis cleans the blood from Harry’s face with a damp cloth, he tells him about his conversation with Horan. He tells Harry every single detail and as he rummages through the tiny space looking for the bandages he’s sure he has tucked away somewhere, he even tells Harry what he can remember of the dreams that had plagued him during his night in the cell.

Harry stays mostly silent. Wincing with pain every now and then and leaning more into Louis’ touch whenever he can. Louis looks at him in the unflattering light, he looks at Harry’s almost ghostly pallor, at the ugly bruises fanning across his eye, his forehead, his jaw, Louis looks at his cut and swollen lip and he’s overcome by waves of affection that threaten to drown him. When Harry rests his forehead gingerly on Louis shoulder briefly, Louis screws his eyes shut and wraps his arms around him, holding Harry as tightly as he dares.

“Come,” Louis says quietly and takes Harry’s hand. He guides him from the harsh artificial light of the bathroom into the living space and eases Harry down on the sofa. Harry goes with a groan and his eyes close as Louis slips a cushion behind his head.

There’s a small rueful smile tugging at the corners of Harry’s ruined lips. “You’re hurt too you know,” he informs Louis.

Louis snorts a little as he fluffs his other flat cushion and looks for the best place to put it for maximum comfort. “I know H but it’s about relativity.”

Harry doesn’t argue. He settles his body into the cushions, turing sideways with obvious effort. Harry’s hair falls across his face much in the same way it did the first time he laid on this sofa, after Louis had made him horrible tea and they’d spent hours pouring over Martin’s papers. It seems like a lifetime ago. Louis remembers feeling so strange and off balance that night. He remembers the urge to reach out and push those strands of Harry’s hair away. He remembers the way his fingers twitched with the desire and the way he kept his hands to his sides, admiring, confused and unsettled.

Now, he reaches out without hesitation as he kneels beside the couch. He puts a hand into those rich brown curls. Louis threads his fingers through the strands - mindful of the nasty cut just below the hairline - and tucks them away. Harry sighs and he opens his eyes to regard Louis and Louis ducks his head, brings his lips right up against Harry’s and just feels Harry against him. He turns his head slightly letting his lips brush Harry’s back and forth a few times and Harry parts his a little and sighs. Louis pushes forward then and kisses him. It’s a barely there touch, a ghost of a kiss and they linger for a moment, suspended, until Harry whispers a broken, “Louis.” Then, Louis surges forward, pressing them together and tasting Harry properly. Harry makes that broken noise again but it’s muffled this time, no words, and he moves his lips against Louis’, desperate.

Louis is mesmerised. Last night he’d kissed these lips not sure if he would ever get another chance, not sure if he’d ever see Harry again. Here with the dim afternoon sun filtering through the blinds he can’t bare the thought of that actually happening. He has to keep Harry safe. As he thinks this, Harry’s tongue darts out to connect with his own and Louis is drawn back to the reality of their circumstance. He tastes the heat where Harry’s skin is broken, where his bottom lip has been split. It shocks him even though he knew it was there. Louis pulls away with a gasp.

“Did I hurt you?” Louis asks a bit frantically, skirting a gentle finger across the injury.

“Lou …” Harry says and then trails off. He doesn’t even answer Louis’ serious inquiry. Instead he pushes himself up on the cushions so he’s more laid back than lying down. “Louis … whatever you’re thinking, whatever you have to do, I’m not letting you do it alone.”

Louis closes his eyes and shakes his head. He will not do this with Harry again, he cannot do this again.

“Don’t Harry … please.”

“Louis I left you. I left you and I didn’t know where you were, what was happening to you, I can’t feel like that again … I will never forgive myself.” There’s anguish and guilt in Harry’s voice and it breaks Louis just a little to hear it.

“You cannot be a part of this. You know that.”

“Louis.”

“Harry. I came back. Didn’t I?” Louis puts a hand on either side of Harry’s bruised face. “Didn’t I?”

“I…”

“It was always going to go this way Harry even before we met.” Louis tries to keep his voice even, sure, steeped in the inevitability.

His mind grabs onto words and pleas that he can use. He can point out that Harry is more injured than he is. Louis can say that Harry will only slow him down. He can repeat again what Horan told him, the need to keep it as discreet as they possibly can, to involve as little people as they can. These things flit through his mind but the only thing that holds on is the need to protect and the guilt that swirls persistent and heavy from leading them into that graveyard, that ambush, for the violence and the darkness.

“Louis--” his name on Harry’s lips draw him back.

“Baby--” Harry stills at that, his eyes going wide and bright and Louis knows he’s playing dirty again but goddammit it he has to. “-- I need you to stay.”

“You play so dirty Tomlinson. So so dirty.”

Louis feels better that at least Harry knows and knows too that Louis means the endearment, that his affection is genuine.

“I need you in one piece love.” Louis’ settling into these words now and he likes the way they roll off his tongue, how they sound coated in sweet things the way he means them to be and the way Harry’s eyes go even wider. Louis chuckles a little at the expression on Harry’s face. He’s endeared by it and he wonders when his own emotions will settle for more than a minute at a time.

“I know that I’m laying it on heavy--”

“I’m surprised you’re laying it on at all …” Harry breathes the words.

Harry parted his lips to speak but he trails off when he notices how Louis’ eyes are fixated on them again. Louis reaches a hand out into the silence and smooths it across the planes of Harry’s face. He feels the stubble on his jaw, feels when Harry leans into the touch, gives himself over to it. He feels Harry’s acquiescence, his acceptance that Louis will be going alone.

Louis connects their lips again. The kiss is as soft as Louis can manage. He’ll be damned if he causes Harry any more pain. Harry closes his eyes, sighing into Louis’ mouth and Louis follows suit. There’s darkness behind his lids but everything is so fucking bright. There’s a touch of that gold that has eluded him for so long. Harry’s light has rekindled his own, reminding Louis that it had always been there, just hidden away. It outlines them both and Louis can feel the intense warmth of it radiating through him.

Louis pulls away and sees that Harry’s eyes are wet. He doesn’t realise that his own are too until Harry wipes at his cheek, brushing away a traitorous tear.

Harry’s voice is rough when he speaks. “This thing between us, it happened hard and fast but it’s like it’s been brewing forever. When I told you how I’d been fired for not following orders, how I was drawn to you, I-- I was trying to say that I felt something for you. I just… I couldn’t say the words then but I can say them now.

“Harry--”

“No Louis, let me.” The cool metal of harry’s ring slips across the stubble on Louis’ jaw and Louis turns his head a little to kiss Harry’s palm. His lips connect right at the edge under Harry’s thumb and Harry makes a quiet sound. Louis kisses it again then grabs Harry’s hand angling his head as he does it again, properly this time and Harry’s eyes slip close for a moment before they open again, shining. “Don’t go.” Harry whispers and for a moment a strong battle wages in Louis’ gut.

“I have to.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have said that. I know you have to do this for Martin--” Harry averts his eyes, his cheeks colouring.

“It’s-- it’s not just about that, not anymore. This is about me and you--” Harry’s eyes bore into his own and louis draws a shaky breath. “--I have to do this for us or we won’t ever be safe. I need-- I need us to have a chance to have-- this.”

“Louis--”

“Don’t Harry.” Louis knows, he knows and he doesn’t think he can take it. “Don’t,” he whispers. “Don’t.”

But Harry ignores him and does anyway. “I love you.” Louis feels a deep ache in his chest, it rips something out of him, hollows him out and then fills him again until everything threatens to spill over. _“_ I feel like it was an instant thing. The minute I saw you I was done for.” Harry falls silent then, only his eyes flitting across Louis’ face.

Louis exhales. Damn Harry, why did he have to say it? Why did he have to put it out there into the universe, into the air of this choking city? This place only takes and Louis is so afraid that now that it knows, it will take this too. He shakes his head on impulse, willing Harry to draw the words back in or at least to whisper them instead.

“Louis look at me.” With great effort, Louis does. “I know where you’re going and I just need you to know, I need you to take that with you since you won’t let me go with you.”

Louis tries for levity. “You say that like I’m not coming back.” It comes out choked, failing to unbalance the heavy atmosphere around them. He’s on his knees, the both of them bruised, bound together in this most private moment. Louis has never felt so vulnerable, so exposed.

“No. Don’t.” Harry’s words are sharp and his voice only trembles the tiniest amount. “You don’t have a fucking choice but to come back. There’s no way in hell I’m going to lose you just when I’ve found you.” Harry is earnest, his emotions flayed open, matching Louis’ vulnerability, exposing just as much and Louis stares into his eyes, caught.

There’s a lump in Louis’ throat, in his chest. Every breath is painful but he takes them anyway, as deep as he can. Keeping contact with Harry’s green eyes, he plucks up his courage, works it with everything he has. Fuck this city, he isn’t afraid. He can have this.

“I-- I love you H.” Louis whispers the words, his mouth right next to Harry’s, letting Harry’s parted lips swallow them up before they travel too far.

Harry makes a little noise in the back of his throat and it sounds almost anguished and Louis’ heart feels like it’s being squeezed. Harry draws him into one more fierce kiss, pulling back on a wince and it doesn’t even matter to Louis that his knees are starting to hurt.

“Go,” Harry says and Louis hears the strength that Harry infuses into his voice. He hears the nervousness, the fear, the worry. “Go. The sooner you get this over with the sooner you can come back home.”

It’s only minutes later that Louis’ slinging his coat around his body. As he heads to the door he hear’s Harry’s voice floating to him.

“Come back to me.”

He says it so quietly that Louis wonders if he was even meant to hear it. “I will.” If his voice wavers on those words he can only hope Harry doesn’t notice.


End file.
